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Brigham Young University 


. 8c Mrs. J. T. Olson 

Romance of a Missionary 

A Story of English Life and 
Missionary Experiences. 


ttiJJ -d Upon," "Daughter ~' J1 -- 
John St. John," Etc. 

Author of "Added Upon, "Daughter of the North, 



Zion's Printing and Publishing Company 

Independence, Jackson County, Mo. 



• t 

• ■ ► • V 



I. Getting "Wet Over" 7 

II. What Might Have Been 24 

III. The Sisters Fernley 40 

IV. In the Police Court 53 

V. The Green Lanes of England 68 

VI. London 83 

VII. The Dearth of Men 99 

VIII. "What Shall We Do to be Saved?"— 

Dwight Thornton's Story 115 

IX. Elder Donaldson's Story 130 

X. Visitors to England 141 

XI. Individuals and Individuality 155 

XII. Brotherly and Sisterly Love 166 

XIII. The "Long-Sleeved Envelope" and 

Letters from Home 177 


Facing Page 

Hawarden Castle, the home of Gladstone .... 72 

A typical English country village 74 

"A young couple was seated upon the grass, in- 
tent upon a book" 76 

"England's beautiful lake region" — Lake 

Windermere 78 

Westminster Bridge and Houses of Parliament 88 

London Bridge 90 

The Bank of England Corner — "The busiest 

spot on earth" 92 

"Willard got down from the bus at the Marble 

Arch" 94 

"He crossed the Serpentine by the bridge" ... 98 

The Liverpool Landing 144 

Romance of a Missionary. 



It looked as if it might rain any minute. One 
of the elders was fearful that it would, the other that 
it would not. If the moisture from the black, 
overhanging clouds come down in actual drops in- 
stead of in a fine misty drizzle, why, of course, the 
street meeting would have to be abandoned, — and 
this is what Elder Willard Dean half prayed in his 
heart would happen. 

I said "half prayed" because there was a 
struggle in the mind of the young man. He was 
a newly arrived elder, having been in England only 
a few weeks. He had accompanied Elder Walter 
Donaldson, his companion, to a number of street 
meetings, but as yet, he had not been required to 
take part in them to any considerable extent. This 


evening his companion had intimated that it was 
time he was testing his voice in the open, and this is 
the reason why the young man walked with fear and 
trembling through the crowded street. 

The streets of an English manufacturing city 
are usually crowded on Saturday evening. The 
mills have closed early; the young men and women 
have been home, have had their "tea," have changed 
their work garments to cleaner ones, and are now 
promenading the streets, enjoying the freedom of 
the open. They are a happy, merry crowd, ex- 
changing greetings and banterings as they pass and 
repass, the girls ahead linked arm in arm, the 
young men following. 

This Saturday evening, in this particular Eng- 
lish city of Bradford, there appeared to be an un- 
usually large crowd. The weather had been wet all 
week, but now the clouds had lifted for a few hours, 
the sun had shone for a few minutes through the 
murky, yellow mist, and these favorable tokens 
had, no doubt, brought out the people. However, 
the clouds had again lowered, and the rain was 
once more threatening. 

The young "Mormon" elders pushed themselves 


carefully through the crowd, looking for a good cor- 
ner on which to hold a meeting. Here, certainly, 
were people enough to form an audience; but these 
were not the kind that stopped and listened to a 
street preacher; besides, the police would not allow 
a blockade in the principal thoroughfares; the 
elders, therefore, passed on to a part of the city 
less densely packed. 

Elder Dean slipped his hand into his compan- 
ion's arm as they walked along. He looked up to 
the sky, then at the people, and then into the face 
of Elder Donaldson; but in none of these did he 
find any hope of relief for the task that was before 
him. How could he stand out there on the pavement 
and raise his voice so that people would stop and 
listen to him! If they would only not stop nor listen, 
it might not be so bad, but likely, some at least 
would. They would look closely into his face, and 
listen carefully to every stammering word that he 
would utter. They would see his nervous, awkward 
manner, they would mark well his faltering speech. 
Oh, if it would only rain! 

Willard Dean clasped his friend's arm tighter, 


and drew up closer. "Brother," said he, "don't 
call on me tonight. I feel as if I can't do it." 

"But you must begin sometime, you know, and 
this evening is as good a time as any. Brace up, 
my boy, and trust in the Lord." 

"Yes, I know, but you can't conceive how I 

"Can't I? I haven't forgotten my first ex- 
perience in London. But, Brother, let me assure 
you, it is not so bad as it appears. There is really 
nothing to fear. An English crowd will hurt no 



It isn't that, at all. I'm afraid of myself more 
than the people." 

"Listen," said Elder Donaldson, "do you re- 
member when as boys we went swimming?" 


"Well, you remember what a time it was to 
wet over. We would stand on the bank shivering 
and hesitating, afraid of the cold water. A shower 
of water from someone splashing in the creek was 
not very pleasant; but once we plunged bravely in 
and got well wet over, everything was all right and 
swimming was great fun. Well, this missionary 


work is very much like that. An elder must get 
'wet over* and keep 'wet over' or he is in misery 
all the time. Here is a good comer for a meeting." 

Elder Donaldson stepped out from the pave- 
ment a short distance into a by street where the 
traffic would not interfere. He took his hymn book 
from his pocket and began looking for something to 
sing. While he was thus occupied, Elder Dean 
came and stood by him. The crowd became merely 
a blur to him. He thought that as a boy and even as 
a young man he had been called upon to do some 
unpleasant duties, but none seemed quite so hard as 
this one. What was praying in Sunday School, 
lecturing in Mutual, ward teaching, or chopping 
wood for the ward widows, compared with this! 
The young man fairly trembled as his companion 
raised his voice in a song, in which he was expected 
to join. 

The men were fairly good singers, but this evening 
they seemed to be out of both tune and time. People 
were attracted more by the disharmony than by the 
music. The street was well lighted by the lamps in 
the shop windows, and the missionaries could plain- 
ly see the grin on many of the faces of their listeners. 


Just before the close of the second stanza, something 
went wrong. The tune came to its natural and 
proper end, but there were more words to come in 
the song, and so there was a very bad mix up. 
However, Elder Donaldson announced the purpose 
of their visit on the streets of the city, and then he 
offered a short prayer. 

By this time quite a number of people had 
gathered. Elder Donaldson spoke on the first 
principles of the gospel, and he was listened to 
quite attentively. When he closed, he relieved his 
companion of his hat and then said to him, "All 
right, bear your testimony.' ' 

The young man bared his head and stepped out 
into the circle. At that moment a number of men 
stopped, and then pushed their way to the inner 
circle where they stood listening. The young mis- 
sionary had not spoken many words before one of 
these men shouted directly at him: 

"You are a liar!" 

Willard Dean was born and reared in Western 
America, where no man calls another a liar unless 
he stands ready to back it up by the power of his 
fists, or at times with weapons more deadly. Wil- 


lard Dean suddenly awoke from his frightened 
stupor. The words stung him. They cleared his 
brain, and the muscles of his limbs became tense. 

Elder Donaldson gripped his arm tightly and 
said, "Go on, pay no attention to that fellow." 

Willard tried to continue his speaking, but the 
man in the crowd shouted again, "You are lying! 
You are 'Mormons' from Utah, coming here to 
steal away our women. These men are 'Mormons,' " 
he said turning and addressing himself to the crowd. 

"Yes, I am a 'Mormon,'" shouted Willard 
Dean, "and I am not ashamed of it." 

"You ought to be," came from a woman in 
another part of the crowd. 

"Let the young man talk," spoke up a third 

"He lies, he lies," shouted the first interrupter. 
"I know these 'Mormons' and their devilish ways. 
Beware of them, people." 

Willard Dean was about to step across the 
short space which separated him from his accuser, 
but his companion stopped him. 

"Let me hit him," he pleaded; "let me hit him 
just once!" 


"Hush, be still. Let me talk to the people." 

But they had heard the young preacher's re- 
mark and some of them shouted: 

" 'E wants to fight. 'E's a fine preacher, 'e 

Then there came a rush which nearly carried 
the elders off their feet. A party of anti-' 'Mormons" 
had planned to break up the meeting, and they were 
succeeding. Elder Donaldson had all he could do 
to prevent his companion from entering into the 
thick of the melee and "laying out" a few of their 

"Come," said the wiser one, "we must get out 
of this crowd." 

"What! run away from these cowards? Not 
at all." 

"'E wants to fight," someone again shouted, 
"poke his bloody 'ed." 

There was another rush and the elders were in 
danger of being roughly handled. Willard Dean 
had thought it hard to face a strange crowd as a 
preacher, but he found it still harder to remain 
cool and nonresistive when a lot of cowardly men 


and boys were insulting him by both words and 

The elders got away and walked along the 
street. The crowd had now become a mob, and 
spurred on by the anti-' 'Mormons/ ' they followed 
the men, hooting and jeering at them and pelting 
them with what street refuse they could gather. 

"Do we have to stand all this?" asked Willard. 

"Yes; they'll not hurt us; a rotten egg makes 
no bruises, and we can wash off the mud. Come on." 

"But it hurts terribly— inside!" 

Elder Donaldson only laughed. 

"Shall we go to our lodging?" asked Willard. 

"No; we will board the first street car which 
comes. That is the best thing to do to get away 
from a mob like this." 

In a few minutes they jumped on a passing 
car. The mob did not care to pay a penny for the 
pleasure of tormenting them further, so they were 
safe. When they surveyed one another they found 
that they had escaped easily. The few sticks and 
stones had done no damage, and the mud was soon 

At the end of a ten minutes' ride they alighted 


from the car. They stood looking at each other, 
and Elder Donaldson laughed heartily. 

"Is this a laughing matter?" asked Willard. 

"Well, isn't it?" 

"I guess it is," replied his companion after a 
pause. Then he continued: 

"You sometimes hold two meetings the same 
evening, don't you?" 

"Yes. Do you want another tonight?" 

"Most certainly. I'm getting wet over. Do 
you think that because those sneaking fellows back 
there have thrown water on me that I shall back 
out and not complete the operation? Not at all. 
Let's go and hold another meeting. We are at 
least a mile from the mob, and they'll not disturb 
us, do you think? 

"No; they will not, but others may." 

"Let's try it, then. I believe I'm wet over, 

"Well, I believe you are, too." 

They chose a corner where not so many people 
were passing, and there they began another meeting. 
The rain cloud still hung threateningly over the 


city, and now Elder Dean's wish that it would not 
rain was not divided. The time was nearing nine 
o'clock, but there were a good many people out, 
and there would be, until midnight. 

They sang a hymn, with better success this 
time. Elder Donaldson prayed. Then Elder Dean 
stepped out into the small circle that had gathered. 
He began quietly, as if he were explaining some 
gospel principle to a Sunday school class in a small 
room. He did not need to speak loudly to be heard. 
People stopped and listened to the earnest young 
man, and soon there was a good-sized company. 
The speaker raised his voice as the audience in- 
creased. Such freedom of speech had never come 
to Willard Dean before. Thoughts came freely, 
and they were uttered in apt and easy words. The 
truth of the message which he was bearing to his 
fellow men came forcibly to him, and his testimony 
grew strong. All fear left him now, and he felt as 
if he were not only master of himself but of any 
situation that might arise. 

Presently someone on the outskirts of the crowd 
made an interruption. 

Elder Dean paused. "Friend, do not disturb 


the meeting," he said. "If you have any questions 
to ask, we shall be pleased to answer them when we 
are through." 

But this did not satisfy one man in the crowd. 
There came to be considerable confusion, and Elder 
Donaldson suggested to his companion that they 
would better close the meeting. 

"No," said Elder Dean, "not yet;" and then 
he stepped out more into the open and nearer to 
the people. The young man drew himself to his 
full height and stood silently looking at the crowd. 
Tall he was, with broad, straight shoulders. His 
bushy, brown hair showed signs of the recent 
scramble. His face, though smooth and round and 
boyish, now beamed with light, and a determined 
purpose shone from it. 

The confusion continued, but there was no 
effort to push the elders off. Those nearest to Wil- 
lard Dean, stood as silently as he, and had no de- 
sire to get closer. 

Willard now began to feel that if he was 
to win, he would have to receive strength from a 
higher Power than his own; and as he stood there — 
it was only a few moments, but it seemed a long 


time to him — he prayed for power to subdue and 
to conquer. A feeling came to him that there were 
some in that assembly who were seeking after the 
truth. In all fairness, such ought to have the op- 
portunity to hear it. 

Standing at one side of the crowd, and looking 
intently at the young missionary, was a little elder- 
ly woman dressed in black. She carried a basket 
on her arm, in which were her Saturday evening 
purchases. Willard, in turning, caught sight of 
this woman, and something in her face attracted 
him. There was a striking resemblance in the 
woman's features to those of his mother, — his 
mother in far-off Utah, who had sent him out with 
her love and blessing. Then it came to him like a 
flash: his mother was an Englishwoman, and she 
had come, when a young woman, from this very 
city. The thought inspired him. He stepped up 

to the little woman that had attracted him and 
began to speak to her. As he did not speak loudly, 
those near them who were eager to hear were com- 
pelled to listen attentively. In this way the circle 
of quietness grew, until in a few minutes practically 
all the people were listening to the conversation 
which was taking place. 


"My good woman," said Willard to the figure 
in black, with pale face, "you remind me of my 
mother — the mother that I left six thousand miles 
from here to bring a glad message to you." 

"Are you from America?" asked she with an 
inquiring tone. 

"I am from Utah, in America," he replied. 

"You are a 'Mormon?' " 


Then he turned again to the listening people, 
and raising his voice so that all could hear dis- 
tinctly, he said: 

"Friends, this good woman reminds me of 
my mother. My mother is an Englishwoman, and 
came from this very town. Some of the older people 
may know her and her parents. In her girlhood she 
worked in your mills, — very likely one of these near 
at hand. She went to Utah many years ago, but 
she remembers her native country yet, and loves it 
and its people. Said she to me before I left her: 
'My boy, when you get to the old country you will 
find many things that are strange to you* — that's 
true, friends. 'You will find that very many will 
not listen to you or your message, but this you will 


find among all Englishmen — a love of fair play. 
They may not always treat you kindly, but they 
will usually treat you fairly.' Friends, I want my 
mother's words to come true. My brother and I 
have been chased by a mob in the streets of this 
city this very evening. There is no fair play about 
that. I want to think that that experience is only an 
exception to the general rule, and that you, gentle- 
men, are the Englishmen of whom my mother spoke, 
whom she knew in her younger days — Englishmen 
who love fair play." 

By this time a good many people had stopped 
and were listening to the young man. A murmur 
of applause greeted his appeal to them. As it was 
becoming late, the traffic of the city grew less and 
therefore the distracting noises fewer. The rain 
clouds hung low, and already a little fine rain began 
to fall. However, neither preacher nor audience 
seemed to heed the wet. 

Elder Dean, referring again to his mother, told 
them of her experiences in emigrating to America, 
and of the hardships endured in settling its wild 
western country. "What was all this for?" he 
asked. "I will tell you. It was for the love of the 


gospel of Jesus Christ, and that she might be with 
the people of her own faith. Her own kindred had 
cast her out, because she had followed the convic- 
tions of her heart; and so she said to her fellow be- 
lievers, with Ruth of old: 'Intreat me not to leave 
thee, or to return from following after thee: for 
whither thou goest I will go ; and where thou lodgest 
I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and 
thy God my God/ So she went with them to 
America, and to Utah. And she has prospered 
over there. She loves her native land yet, and I, 
her son, feel as if you, my friends, were part of my 
kin. My heart goes out towards this great nation, 
where the gospel has found so many noble men and 
women, and where I feel there are many yet who are 
looking for more of the truth than they can find in 
the conflicting creeds of the day." He spoke to 
them briefly of the restoration of the gospel by 
angel visits to the Prophet Joseph Smith, and then 
closed by bearing his testimony. The rain was 
falling faster now, and at the close of Elder Donald- 
son's brief prayer of dismissal the people hurriedly 

There was no chance to give out any literature 


in such weather, so the men walked homeward in 
the rain, which now came pelting down. For a 
while Elder Dean was so unconscious of it that he 
failed to raise his umbrella. 
[ ~ "Elder Dean," said his companion, "it seems 
to me that you are not only wet over, but wet 
through. Put up your umbrella." 

"It was glorious," replied the other, as he did 
what he was told. "And, dear brother, I want to 
keep not only wet over all the time, but wet through 
and through." 



Willard Dean was twenty-five years old the 
day he landed in Liverpool and wrote his name in 
the missionary record book, in the Church office. 
This had been his first long journey, and he felt 
that he had come a long way from home. The 
welcome and the instructions which he received from 
the president of the mission helped him somewhat 
to forget his homesickness; and when he was as- 
signed his field of labor, he entered upon his duties 
with the vim and enthusiasm characteristic of the 
young Latter-day Saint missionary. His compan- 
ion was Elder Walter Donaldson, a young man 
about his own age, who had been in the field six 

Willard was simply an average "Mormon" 
boy. He had been born and reared in one of the 


larger country towns of Utah; had worked on his 
father's farm in summer, and had attended school 
in the winter. His schooling had extended into the 
third year of the high school, and then it had ceased, 
because of pressing home duties. A few years of 
such life, and then the missionary call had come. 
He responded willingly — and here he was, young, in- 
experienced, but eager to learn and willing to do 
his duty. 

The first few weeks had been very trying to 
him. Naturally reticent, he dreaded to approach 
people who did not fail to tell him by either word or 
action that neither he nor his doctrine was wanted. 
His first few days of tracting were days of keen 
mental suffering; and oftentimes it took his utmost 
will power to still his fast beating heart and bring 
his reluctant steps to the door. His companion, 
remembering his own experiences, was patient with 
him and helped him with kind advice and reassur- 
ing words. 

rBut after that eventful street-meeting, Willard 
Dean underwent a wonderfully rapid transformation. 
He was surely "wet over" and stayed "wet." The 
missionary spirit burned within him, and drove out 


all fear. If the door was slammed in his face, he 
simply hummed softly a song, — usually, "School 
thy feelings, 0, my brother," — and then went to 
the next door. Street-meetings grew on him, as 
they usually do on the energetic elder. After a 
time, he declared that he would rather hold a good 
street meeting than to eat one of Sister McDonald's 
splendid meals. There was something exhilarating 
to the soul to have a large company of people stand 
and listen to the message which he was sent to 
deliver. There had been no more trouble with mobs, 
and his meetings were not usually disturbed. 

One day, about two weeks after the meeting 
at which Willard had given his first talk, he re- 
marked to his companion that recently the face of 
the little old woman in black had repeatedly come 
to him. "I wish I had taken her name and address," 
he said. 

"Why, I have it," exclaimed his companion, 
"I had forgotten all about it: she gave it to me 
while you were speaking. She was very much in- 
terested in what you were saying; and, now I am 
reminded of it, she asked us to call on her." 

"I feel that we ought to call just as soon as 
possible," said Willard. 


That same afternoon they set out on their 
errand. It was a beautiful, warm day — such a 
day that brings out into the open, the wretched- 
ness and misery of life in the slums, — for the woman's 
address led them through the city's most squalid 
quarter to its farther side. As they passed through 
the narrow, dirty, foul-smelling streets, they found 
that the dwellers in the wretched buildings on 
each side of the street had deserted their dark "holes" 
for the warm stones and pleasant sunshine of the 
street. The pavement swarmed with children, — 
dirty, ragged, puny children. They sprawled over 
the sidewalks on to the street on each side, until 
there was hardly room for the two men to pass in 
the middle of the street. Women lounged in the 
doorways and on the steps. Willard looked at them 
in a sort of a dazed horror. This was his first ex- 
perience in the slums. He was told that these 
women were the mothers of the children, and this 
fact explained much to him. The women gossiped 
with each other. Some were scolding their children, 
some were quarreling with their neighbors, some 
were talking and laughing in loud, harsh voices. 
Some were bringing ale from the corner dram shop, 


while others were drinking from their big earthen 
mugs and giving sips to the babes. 

The two men breathed easier when the better 
streets were reached. They, however, passed by 
the number which they were seeking, and so had to 
retrace their steps. They found it in a very small 
side-street. It was more quiet there, as the street 
was too narrow to admit of any warming sunlight. 

The woman whom they were seeking opened 
the door at their knock. She stood in the doorway 
a moment looking at the men. She was dressed 
in the same black gown, but her pale face was clean, 
and her gray hair was combed in an orderly way. 
She looked quite different from the great majority 
of her neighbors. 

"Come in," she said. "I am glad you have 
come. I have been waiting for you for many days. 
Come in." 

The room was small. Very dirty paper covered 
the walls, except where it had fallen off, when a 
dirtier wall beneath was displayed. The little 
window had been recently washed, and a bit of 
clean, white curtain hung before it. There was a 
table, three chairs, and in two of the corners were 


piled-up clothing, which at night was spread out 
for beds. The floor was bare but clean. In a small 
side room were a few kitchen utensils hanging on 
the wall, by the fireplace. The two missionaries 
were invited to occupy chairs, while the woman 
seated herself on the only remaining one. 

"We have a very poor place to invite gentle- 
men to," she said; "but I wanted to have a talk 
with you." 

"We are pleased to visit you," replied Elder 
Donaldson, "no matter how poor you are." 

"Thank you, sir — we were not always poor — 
we did not always live in this street." 

Both her speech and manner were evidences 
of the truth of this statement. 

"This young gentleman," she continued, turn- 
ing to Willard, "put me very much in mind of a 
cousin of mine who went many years ago to Utah. 
We were told that Utah was a place out in America 
where people could not get back from, and as we 
never heard of my cousin Mary, we concluded that 
it was all true; but when I heard this young man tell 
of his mother, I was sure that she must be my 


Willard looked in astonishment at the woman, 
and then he saw again the resemblance which he had 
noted at their first meeting. 

"What is your name?" 

"My name in Nancy Loring, and my father 
was Edward Marchant. My father had a brother 
John. His daughter Mary must be your mother." 

"My mother was Mary Marchant, sure 
enough," replied the young man. And now he re- 
membered more of his mother's story of her early 
days in England. 

"Yes; I thought so," continued the woman, 
"and that's why I have been waiting so eagerly 
to see you." 

And then there was a lot of explaining, and much 
history to tell on both sides. Willard told her 
where and how they lived in Utah. He told of his 
father and his brothers and sisters. Other relatives 
of the woman there were none, as his mother had 
been the only one of her family to join the Church. 

Then she told him many details of her life's 
history, and a sad story it was. She and the young 
elder's mother had been girls together, had gone to 
the same school, had worked in the same mill. 
They had been dear friends. 


"One evening — I remember it as distinctly as 
if it were yesterday," said the woman, placing her 
thin hands on the table in front of her, and looking 
intently at Willard, "your mother and I were walk- 
ing the street with a crowd of young people. I 
think it was on a Saturday night, and as I remember 
it, as wet as was the night I heard you preach. There 
was a street meeting going on, and we two girls 
stopped to listen. An elderly man was telling very 
much the same as you told us, sir. I was not in- 
terested, but your mother was. I could hardly 
get her away. I could see nothing in what he 
said, but your mother seems to have been converted 
then and there." 

"Thank God," said Willard Dean to himself. 

"Well, that was the beginning. Cousin Mary, 
your mother, could not rest until she had hunted 
up that man and had a talk with him. She got some 
of his books and sat up nights a reading them. She 
attended some meetings, held by the preacher down 
on Legum Street. I went with her a number of 
times. Very few people attended, and these were 
strangers to us; but the preaching and singing were 
beautiful — I remember that — especially the sing- 


ing. Many's the time that I have tried to recall 
some of those hymns, but I never could succeed." 

She raised the corner of her apron to her eye 
as if to wipe away a tear. 

"Good Mother/' said Elder Donaldson, "we 
will sing you a song or two to see if you can remem- 
ber them." 

She consented gladly, and the two missionaries 
sang, in a modulated tone, a number of "Mormon" 
hymns. The woman listened with a beaming 

"The very ones! the very ones!" she exclaimed 
with a clasp of her hands. "Yes, I have never heard 
such beautiful singing since. He was an old man, 
that first preacher, and he hadn't a strong voice 
either, but somehow his hymn went directly to the 
heart and stayed there. Well, to be brief, your 
mother was baptized into the Church. Then what 
a time she had! Everybody turned against her. 
Her mother scolded her, her father threatened her, 
her brothers and sisters scorned and mistreated her. 
She came to me one day when she was in sore dis- 
tress. Poor girl, how she did carry on! She thought 
I believed some of this new gospel, and so she came 


to me as an only friend; but she went away uncom- 
forted. Although I could see that what she believed 
in was true, I was afraid to say so. I was afraid to do 
anything that would class me with the "Mormons." 
I wasn't so brave as your mother, young man. I 
was fearful of the talk, of the ill-will of my folks, 
and especially was I afraid of a young man I was 
keeping company with. Shortly after this, your 
mother went away, and that was the last we heard 
of her." 

Willard's heart went out to the woman as he 
listened to her narrative. "And then what has been 
your story, Cousin, — I may call you Cousin, may 
I not?" 

"Bless your soul, yes — but my story is quite 
different from that of your mother, quite different. 
I may tell you a little of it. Have you time to listen 
to an old woman's not very pleasant talk?" 

"We have plenty of time," said Willard, as he 
moved his chair up closer to the table. 

"I did not marry the young man that I was 
keeping company with when your mother left; but 
some years after I married George Loring. He died 
some ten years ago. I have had five children. Two 


are dead. My oldest son lives just around the 
corner. He has a large family. My other son lives 
in London. My youngest girl lives here with me. 
She works in the mill at the bottom of the next 
street. My husband was a dyer, and made good 
wages for many years. Then he took to drink, and 
became very bad. For years it was a terrible struggle 
to live. Our home became poorer and poorer, as we 
had to move into cheaper and cheaper lodgings. 
* * * He died, and we came here. We have 
lived in these rooms for two years. I am too old 
to work, and so our living depends on the earnings 
of my daughter, Nora. Times are poor now. The 
mill hands often work but half time, and so her 
earnings are not large." 

"You said you had a son living near by," 
suggested Willard. 

"Yes, but his children would be better off in 
the work house, because both their father and their 
mother drink up every penny they can spare; yes, 
and many a one that they ought not to spare, if 
they considered that their children needed bread 
and clothes. Ofttimes we have to share our bread 
with the hungry children." 


Just then a young woman opened the door, but 
hesitated at sight of the two strange men. 

"Here is my daughter Nora, now/' said Mrs. 
Loring. "Come in, Nora. This is the man from 
Utah that I spoke to you about. He and his friend 
have called to see us. This young man is my cousin, 
Mary Marchant's son." 

The young woman came into the room and took 
the missionaries' proffered hands. 

"I am pleased to meet and know you," said 
Willard. "I suppose if your mother and mine are 
cousins, we are cousins also." 

The girl did not reply, but looked rather timidly 
at the two well-dressed men. She was a tall girl, 
taller than the average English mill girl. She looked 
older than twenty, but it would be hard to say how 
much . Her hair was black, her eyes were dark brown . 
Although her face was pale and colorless, it was not 
an ugly one by any means. 

The mother and daughter went into a side 
room where a hurried consultation was held. The 
daughter went out again, as the mother came into 
the room. 

"You will stay and have a cup of tea with us, 


will you not? Nora thought it would be presump- 
tuous to ask you, but I said for your mother's sake 
you would. I am sure I am right, am I not?" 

"You are, cousin, though you must not go to 
any inconvenience for us. And let me explain," 
he continued. "We missionaries do not drink tea, 
but if you will give us the hot water and let us put 
[the milk and sugar in without the tea, we shall like 
it just as well." 

The woman was somewhat astonished at this, 
but she agreed to humor them. A clean white 
cloth was spread on the table, on which was placed 
a few dishes. Then Nora came back with a number 
of paper parcels, and there was a further consul- 
tation in the other room where the kettle was already 
singing. The peculiar drinking habits of these men 

from Utah were no doubt explained to the daughter. 
When all was ready, the three chairs were drawn 
up to the table, and a stool was brought from the 
other room. Nora took the rather unsteady stool, 
and Willard tried to have her exchange with him; 
but she would not consent. On the table there were 
the usual thin, buttered slices of bread. The cold 
sliced meat and the jam were no doubt extras for 
that occasion. 


As the working day was drawing to a close, 
men and women were coming home, and there was 
a clatter of shoes and a babel of voices in the street. 
The half opened door was a number of times pushed 
open by neighbors who looked in with astonishment 
at the company around the table, and then quickly 
withdrew. Nora got up, closed the door tightly, 
then went back to her place. She was very silent, 
and it was some time before the two elders could get 
her to answer at any length some of their questions. 

After the meal was over and the table was 
cleared, Elder Donaldson was given an opportunity 
to talk. In a quiet, careful way he introduced the 
first principles of the gospel. He opened his Bible 
on the table, and the others sat around listening 
intently to what he said. The eveming twilight 
crept into the little room; but the daylight did not 
altogether fade away, and so there was no need of 
the lamp. The noises without grew less disturbing. 
They sat for a long time under the spell of earnest 
speech uttering eternal truths. 

"'Tis the same, the same," exclaimed the 
mother. "It takes me back to my girlhood days. 
The truth of what you have been saying has been 


with me all these years. Nora, my daughter, 
listen, is it not beautiful!" 

But Nora made no comment on what had be n 
said. She became quieter than ever, as if fearful 
of speaking her thoughts. A little later, when the 
conversation turned on general topics, the question 
of whether or not she had ever met and become ac- 
quainted with a certain man was asked her. 

"A man, did you say?" she exclaimed, with 
startling suddenness. "I know no men. I have no 
recollection of ever having known any. I know only 
brutes — yes, once I knew a man, for a little while, 
but he — " She stopped, choking a little in her 
speech. "No, I know no men — they are all brutes," 
she reiterated. 

As the two men walked homeward that evening, 
Willard Dean said to his companion, 

"I have always been on the lookout for things 
to be grateful for. Today I have found the greatest 
of them all. What if my mother had not possessed 
the courage to receive the gospel when she did? 
If she had weakened, had given up, think of the 
possibilities! She, her husband and her children, 
might have been what we have seen today. What 


might have been, but which is not, makes me love 
my mother all the more, and makes me grateful 
beyond words to my heavenly Father." 



Besides the work of tracting and holding street 
meetings in the city, Elders Donaldson and Dean 
were given the branch at Stonedale to look after. 
Stonedale was a suburb of the city, five miles either 
by tram or by road and footpath across the country. 
There were just twenty members in the Stonedale 
branch. Sunday School was held each Sunday 
morning, and services were conducted in the evening. 
It was the elders' duty to be in Stonedale during 
Sunday at least. Usually they went out Saturday 
evening. If it was after the street meetings, they 
went by car; or if they did not remain for the meet- 
ings, they walked out early in the afternoon. 

The Saturday following their appointment to 
this new duty found the two elders walking along 
the road to Stonedale. The afternoon had begun 
fine, and they had anticipated a pleasant walk 


through the green lanes, away from the smoke and 
grime of the city; but they were disappointed in 
this, because it began to rain before they reached 
half way. However, they trudged cheerily on, for 
Elder Donaldson assured his companion that a 
warm welcome awaited them at Sister Fernley's, 
where they were to take tea that evening. Elder 
Donaldson had been to Stonedale a number of times, 
but this was Willard's first visit. 

"I give you fair warning," said Elder Donaldson 
to Willard, as he looked over at him under his drip- 
ping umbrella, "that you do not fall in love with 
either of Sister Fernley's daughters." 

His companion only smiled in reply. 

"Well, you needn't smile so self -assuredly. A 
young unmarried fellow like you isn't altogether 
proof against such girls. I warn you." 

"I've never been in love in my life," laughed 
Willard — "but once" he added half aloud— "and 
the mission field is a poor place to begin, consider- 
ing those very pointed and emphatic instructions 
which the president gave us." 

Sister Fernley was watching for them, and met 
them at the door. She took their wet coats and hats, 


and then led them into the cozy little parlor, where 
a cheerful fire was burning in the grate. They drew 
their chairs nearer the fire, and leaned back com- 
fortably in the big arm chairs which had been placed 
for them. What a blessed feeling of peace and con- 
tentment the elders have in the home of a good 
brother or sister! 

Sister Fernley was about fifty years old, but 
she looked younger. The expression in her face 
and her quiet, solicitous ways, Willard could only 
describe by the term ' 'motherly," and Willard had 
a liking for motherly ways. 

"The girls will soon be home," she explained, 
as she sat down to chat with them, "and then we 
shall have our tea; for you must be hungry after 
your long walk in the rain?" She looked at Willard. 

"'Mormon* Elders are always hungry," he 
replied, "when there is something to eat." 

"Otherwise, they are not," she added. 

They sat chatting pleasantly a short time, when 
the hall door opened and closed again with a bang. 
A head was seen at the half -open door into the room. 
Then it was hurriedly withdrawn, and there was a 
scamper of feet up the stairs. 


"That's Bessie," said Sister Fernley. "She 
always lets us know when she comes." 

In a few minutes Bessie came down again. She 
had changed her dress and put a few touches to her 
hair. She greeted the elders warmly, and talked 
with no great shyness. Bessie was eighteen; she 
was not tall, but plump — not too plump — and rosy; 
full of life and good-natured merriment, she was 
among the elders a proverbial banisher of gloom. 

The tea-table in the dining room now took most 
of her attention, though she found time to come to 
the doorway now and then to make some inquiries 
regarding Elder So and So, of Elder Donaldson. 

"Bessie," said he, "haven't I told you that you 
musn't be so interested in the elders." 

Bessie disappeared. In a few minutes she re- 
turned and stood in the doorway long enough to 

"Elder Donaldson, I've made some currant 
cakes for you — if you're good. They're hot, and 
have plenty of butter on them." 

Once more the outer door opened and some one 
came into the hall. 




Is that you, Elsa?" asked the mother. 
Yes, mama." 
"Elders Donaldson and Dean are hear. Come 


The girl came into the parlor as she was, in 
street costume. As she stood for an instant hesitat- 
ing in the doorway, she appeared as a vision of 
beauty to Willard Dean. She was taller than her 
sister. Her face was a combination of white and 
pink. As she came in without removing hat or 
gloves, Willard instinctively arose. He knew that 
queens demanded homage, and here was a queen. 
She shook hands with the elders, and Willard felt 
the firm pressure of that gloved hand as he had 
never felt hand before. Her sweet smile found a 
way directly to his heart. 

Tea was soon ready, and they went into the 
dining room. All four sat down at the table. Bessie 
was still and sober long enough to allow Elder 
Donaldson to ask the blessing. Elsa sat by Willard. 
With gloves and hat removed, she was more beautiful 
than ever. A mass of dark brown hair crowned a 
shapely head. Her lips were full and red, and when 
she smiled at Willard— which she did quite fre- 


quently — he noted that her teeth were pearly white. 
She was a study in pink and white, and Gainsborough 
might have used her for a model. 

Elsa Fernley was a teacher in one of Stonedale's 
schools, and the talk drifted to schools and teaching, 
both English and American. "Is the American 
system much different from the English?" she 
asked. Willard could not say, as he knew very 
little about the English schools. They all expected 
to go to Utah, some day, and she, of course, would 
have to teach. 

After tea they returned to the parlor. The 
two girls excused themselves while they cleared the 
table and washed the dishes. It was done in an 
incredibly short time, and they were soon back in 
the parlor. It was still raining without. The even- 
ing was grey and dull, so the blinds were drawn, 
the gas was lighted, and the company gathered 
around the fire. 

Willard Dean was naturally a shy man, and 
especially when in the company of girls; but Sister 
Fernley was so motherly, Bessie was so unrestrained, 
and Elsa was so kindly and charmingly attentive, 
that he soon forgot his shyness and felt at ease. 


Unconsciously he found himself listening with more 
than common interest to Elsa, when she told of her 
struggle in accepting the gospel. 

"It was a great trial," she said. "I knew the 
gospel was true, but how could I leave all my 
friends and join a small, despised people, as the 
'Mormons' were? and then, you know, Elder 
Donaldson, what a place the first elders had to hold 
meetings in. It was a small dingy room, the only 
entrance to which was up a rickety, narrow, ill- 
smelling back stairway. I was actually frightened 
the first time I went there. Why, I thought, didn't 
the 'Mormons' have clean, well-lighted chapels, 
located on pleasant streets, the same as other sects 
had? Of course, I soon learned the reason, but that 
didn't make it any easier for me. Then the people 
began to talk, and the school officials came to me. 
They reasoned with me, first kindly, and then with 
more vehemence; but I promised them nothing. 
When I was fully convinced that 'Mormonism' is 
the truth, I was baptized. — Well, that was a year 
ago, and I am still teaching. Everybody said that 
the day I joined the 'Mormons' would mark my 
discharge, and I would have thought so myself but 


for a promise one of the elders gave me. A good 
many people have already told me that they ad- 
mired the stand I took in not resigning my position, 
as some said I would be forced to do." 

And Willard Dean was now among those ad- 
mirers, although he did not tell her so. 

The evening passed rapidly as they talked. 
Bessie had slipped from her chair down to a low 
stool, and resting her head upon her mother's knee, 
she looked up first into one face and then into an- 
other. Elder Dean received the closest scrutiny, 
because, of course, he was a new elder. Bessie was 
quiet for fully ten minutes at a time — quite a record 
for her. Elsa did most of the talking, and the rich, 
clear English accent was music to Willard Dean. 

That night, as the two missionaries were going 
to their lodgings, Elder Donaldson asked : 
"Well, what do you think of them?" 
They are lovely people," was Willard's reply. 
'And especially Elsa, eh?" 
'She is a lovely girl, certainly." 
"What did I tell you? I warned you!" 
"Have I done or said anything to deserve your 
'I told you so?' " 

. .' 


• • V 


"No, but—" 

"Well, I know my duty, brother." 

Nevertheless, that night was somewhat wake- 
ful to Willard Dean. That he had been impressed 
with Elsa Fernley's beauty of face and form, heart 
and soul, he could not deny, and yet he feared to 
admit it, even to himself. It must not be, he said to 
himself emphatically. He must not in the least give 
way. What had the mission president said to them 
when he had given them their instructions? "Re- 
member," were the words, "there is to be no love 
making while you are upon this mission. If any 
elder is caught courting, home he goes. You can- 
not court and do your duty at the same time." But 
why should he worry? He was not courting and 
never would; and yet he was not wholly at ease. 
Elsa Fernley's voice rang in his ears; he saw her 
beaming eyes, and felt the good-night pressure of 
her hand. 

This much regarding Willard Dean must be 
explained: He never had been what is termed a 
"ladies' man." As a boy, he had been shy and awk- 
ward; as a young man, he had never been a favorite 
with the girls. Something about him seemed to 


repel the girls of his set. He had not even learned 
to dance. He blundered with the girls. When he 
tried to be gallant, he made some awkward mistakes 
and was laughed at. He never had a sweetheart. 
He had never "kept company" with any young lady 
longer than a week. As he grew older he had be- 
come acutely conscious of this seeming lack in his 
composition, and so he had studiedly kept away 
from society. He attended his meetings, he went 
to the ward reunions and sociables, but otherwise 
he stayed at home, on the farm, or in the house with 
a book. 

Once — only once — had Willard 's heart been 
seriously entangled. Grace Wells was a neighbor's 
daughter. They had been children together; but 
when Grace was eighteen, she had gone to Salt Lake 
City to attend school and study music. They had 
seen very little of each other for a number of years, 
but Willard watched her grow into a fine, accomp- 
lished young woman. She could play classical music, 
and would rather not attempt her oldtime melodies, 
which father and mother and Willard understood 
and enjoyed. The last time she had been at home — 
it was about a year before he had left on his mis- 


sion — Willard became earnest in his attentions to 
her. She had always treated him well, but this time 
he was sure that she encouraged him. The dream — 
for it proved to be a dream only — lasted a week, but 
the waking effects were with him yet. 

Many and many a time Willard had watched 
the girls bestow their smiles upon the other boys, 
but his own heart-hunger was never satisfied. He 
had tried not to care. He had reasoned with himself, 
but after all, a feeling cannot be reasoned away. 
Time, with accompanying work and changed en- 
vironment, had made Willard reconciled to his lot. 

What, then, would be the inevitable to such a 
young man when such a girl as Elsa Fernley beamed 
on him with eyes that pierced his soul? As far as 
he could see, Elsa was the peer of any girl he knew. 
She was bright, accomplished, beautiful. She was 
good and true, and loyal to the truth. Who of the 
girls at home would make the sacrifices for the gospel 
that she had made? 

Was it any wonder that while the little clock 
ticked away the hours that Saturday night, Willard 
Dean lay wide awake until past midnight? 

The next morning they met again at Sunday 


School. Next to the elders, it was plainly evident 

that Elsa Fernley was the leading spirit of the little 

school. She was organist, and class leader of the 

intermediate department. Willard could not keep 

his eyes from her, try as he would. After the school, 

the Saints stood around in groups and talked. The 

elders did not go home with the Fernleys for dinner, 

but after the evening meeting a group of young 

people accompanied Willard to Sister Fernley's, 

where they had supper, and afterwards music and 

singing. Elder Donaldson spent the evening with 

some gospel investigators. 

That night, in his secret prayer, Willard talked 

plainly with the Lord. He told the Lord that he was 

in danger; for right here, at the beginning of his 

mission, he saw a peril more real and greater than 

had yet come to him. Tracting and street preach- 
ing were little trials of faith and courage; being in- 
sulted by the prejudiced and unthinking did not now 
worry him; but here was something which, if per- 
mitted to grow, might lead to disastrous results. 
He must not give way to the beautiful vision which 
seemed to be knocking at the gate of his heart, de- 
siring to be admitted. No matter how hungry his 


soul might be, he must refuse to eat. 


And the Lord heard the young man's prayer, 
and he was given peace of heart, and strength ac- 
cording to his needs. 



When Elders Donaldson and Dean returned to 
their city lodgings, Monday afternoon, they found 
a note from Mrs. Loring, asking them to call as 
soon as possible. Elder Donaldson had a previous 
appointment, but as the request appeared urgent, 
Willard said he would go alone. 

He found his way down among the dirty streets, 
late in the afternoon. As the day was not warm, 
not many children were in the streets, but there were 
a good many bad-looking men and women reeling 
homeward under the influence of drink. As Wil- 
lard got to the corner where he turned into the by- 
street in which Mrs. Loring lived, he saw a drunken 
man lying on the side-walk. A little ten-year-old 
girl was tugging at him, trying her best to get him 
upon his feet. She was barefooted and bareheaded, 
and, as she leaned over the man and tried with her 


puny strength to help him up, her disheveled hair 
hung over her face and became wet with the tears 
that were streaming from her eyes. 

"Dad," the little girl cried, "get up. The cop 
is surely comin' — and he'll get ye, and put ye in jail. 
dad!" she pleaded, as she tugged "get up. Grand- 
ma's home is just round the corner — just try. Won't 
some of you help me?" she begged of the passers by. 

But no one offered to help. The people went 
by with a grin or a shrug, or an uninterested look. 
At last one young fellow took hold of the man's arm 
and raised him up. "Better try to get him in some- 
where," said he, "or it will mean five shillings to the 
poor devil." 

"Right round the corner," said the girl eagerly. 
"0, help me take him in!" 

The girl looked up and down the street, fearing 
the approach of a policeman any minute. The 
drunken father was dragged a few steps, and then he 
fell again. Then, sure enough, up the street was 
seen a policeman, sauntering along. When the child 
caught sight of him, she frantically renewed her ef- 
forts to get her father out of sight. Willard stood 
looking on with peculiar feelings. His heart ached 


for the child, but what could he do to help? It was 
all so strange to him, but he could do nothing but 
stand in a sort of gruesome fascination and watch 
the proceedings. 

Slowly the big man in blue uniform came down 
the street. He, no doubt, had seen the drunken man, 
and he wanted to give him a chance to get away. His 
duty was to take drunken people off the streets to 
jail, but he did not go into the houses for them. If 
those who were trying to get this fellow off the streets 
would succeed, it would relieve him of an unpleasant 
duty; and so the policeman was very slow in his 
walk, and even stopped a number of times to look 
into shop windows. But at last he reached the group 
which stood around the drunken man and the girl, 
and then he had to do his duty. He waited a few 
minutes until he could hail another policeman, and 
then the two dragged the helpless man to the police 
station near by. The little girl sat down on a door- 
step crying as if her heart would break. 

Willard still lingered. Soon the street was 
cleared, and the little girl was alone. The scene was 
such a common one that it was soon over and for- 
gotten. Presently, the little girl arose and went 


along the street. Willard followed. She turned in 
at Mrs. Loring's door, and so did Willard. 

Mrs. Loring met them both as they entered. 

"0, grandma, they have taken dad to prison 
again," the little girl cried. 

"Her mother is already there," said the woman 
to Willard. "It is quite a common occurrence for 
one of them to be there, but it is not often that both 
are there together." 

"And the children?" asked the young man, 
realizing their condition. "What becomes of them?" 

"They come to me. Nora and I take care of 
them the best we can." She gave him a seat. 

"You got my note, did you?" she asked. 

"Yes; we have been away for a few days, having 
just arrived home this afternoon." 

"Well, you may think it strange, Mr. Dean, 
why I sent to see you; but the truth is, I don't hard- 
ly know myself. I don't see how you can help us, 
and yet I felt as though you could help in some way." 

The young man was at a loss to know what to 
do or say. Presently two more children — a boy and 
a girl — came in, and their grandmother sent the 
three out into the back yard to play until they 


should be called. Then Nora came home. She had 

heard and was angry; but when she saw Willard she 

restrained herself. She shook hands with him and 

apologized for the condition which he had found 

them in. 

"It must be humiliating to find such relatives/' 

she said. 

Willard could not deny that, so he said nothing. 
The children were soon called in and given something 
to eat in the side room, and then they were told to 
be quiet until bed time. Willard talked with the 
two women for some time, comforting them as best 
he could, and when he arose to go, they thanked him 
for his visit. Would he come again?" 

"Certainly/' said he. "When will your son and 
his wife be home again." 

"They will come before the judge in the morn- 
ing, and likely they will get seven days," replied the 

The next morning, Elders Donaldson and Dean 
called at the police station. They were acquainted 
with one of the inspectors, and he took them behind 
the railing in the court room and gave them seats 
where they could see and hear well. There were 


three court rooms, and cases were being tried in 
each. They were told that as many as three hun- 
dred cases were sometimes disposed of in a day. The 
hall leading into the court rooms was crowded with 
people who had been summoned to appear for trial 
or as witnesses, and among them were friends who 
would help to liberty those who could not pay a fine. 
The crowd was indeed a study in all sorts and con- 
ditions of men and women, and especially women, 
for they were in the majority. 

The two elders spent most of the time in the 
room devoted to the "drunks" and other minor of- 
fenders. In the centre of the room there was a stair- 
way leading from the prison below, and this was 
crowded with men and women. The judge sat on a 
raised platform at one end of the room; the attor- 
neys were in front of him, below; while at the back 
were twenty-five or thirty uniformed policemen. 
These were witnesses. 

As a name was called, someone from among 
the prisoners stepped out from the top of the stairs 
and walked up to an iron railing facing the judge. 
The charge was then read, and a policeman was 
called to the witness stand. After being sworn, he 


raised the Bible to his lips, and then as briefly as 
possible stated the case against the prisoner. Then 
the judge asked, "Well, what about that?" at which 
the prisoner usually muttered some excuse, or ad- 
vanced a faint plea for mercy. The prisoner's for- 
mer police court record was then read aloud by the 
clerk for the information of the judge, and sentence 
was pronounced, which usually consisted of a fine of 
five or ten shillings, or in lieu thereof imprisonment 
for seven or fourteen days. The better class of pris- 
oners came in at the side entrance, having been out 
on bail. They usually paid their fine on the spot, 
and departed. 

The proceedings seemed to be a monotonous 
grind to most of the people present, but not so to 
the two "Mormon" missionaries. Grind there cer- 
tainly was — the stairs from the prison below seemed 
to be an endless chain, which was propelled by some 
unseen machine — but all this, instead of being mon- 
otonous was intensely interesting to the two young 

The work went on rapidly. There was no time 
for extended remarks from anyone. Ofttimes the 
judge would cut short the prisoner's story by pro- 


nouncing sentence, and the condemned would be 
hustled from the dock down another stairway to a 
room below. By ones and twos and threes, they 
came. Five men were arranged in a row and sentenc- 
ed at once. Then came an old woman. Her hair 
was gray. She had it smoothly combed that morn- 
ing, and her dress was clean and tidy. Willard got 
a good look at her face. It was the face of a woman 
yet, though marked with years of dissipation. The 
young man's heart seemed to come up into his 
throat, and he felt like crying. A woman in such a 
condition and position, and especially an old woman, 
with wrinkled face, white hair, and feeble limbs! 
She should have been sitting in an easy chair by the 
fire, or under the vines of the porch with her knit- 
ting, and with her grandchildren playing around her. 
Here was the most touchingly disharmonious scene 
A that Willard Dean had ever witnessed. 

The woman stood clinging to the iron bar, look- 
ing at the judge. The charge of drunkenness was 
read and testified to. "Twenty-two times before," 
announced the official who kept the record. The 
judge looked at the woman for an instant and then 
said, "This will not do. We shall have to place you 


where you cannot get drunk. We have given you a 
good many chances to reform, but without avail. 
Has the woman any relatives or friends present?" 

A woman came forward to the railing, and said 
she was her daughter. The prisoner lived with her. 

"Can you not keep liquor from her?" said the 

"We have tried and tried, your honor," was the 
reply, "but it is no use. She has a little money of 
her own coming to her each month, and she drinks 
this up. I've tried and tried for years, your honor, 
but — " with a great sob, "I've almost give up. — 
But, — I'd like to try again, your honor — give her one 
more chance. I'll do my best." 

There was a moment's pause in the court room, 
as if the hearts of all had been troubled. Then the 
judge said: 

"I think it will be best if we put her away from 
temptation for awhile. Six months." 

An officer took the old woman's arm and led 
her quietly away. The endless chain moved again, 
and two ugly, dirty young fellows stood on the top 
steps. They had been drunk and had been fighting. 
"Fourteen days," said the judge. They muttered 


vengeance on some one as they were hurriedly pushed 
away. Then came a girl, quite neatly dressed, her 
decorated hat conspicuous among the bare heads of 
the women. Her offense was more serious than being 
drunk, though it seemed the law placed it in the same 
list. Willard looked into the face of the young 
girl — she couldn't have been more than eighteen 
— and appeared pure as any good girl — he could not 
understand. She seemed such a child! 

The judge turned to a woman who sat within 
easy reach. 

"Have you any request to make?" he asked her. 
"Do you know the prisoner?" 

"Yes, I'll take care of her until tomorrow," was 
the reply. 

It was so ordered, and the girl was told to sit 
down on a seat within the railing. The woman whis- 
pered something to her, but there seemed to be no 
change in the expressionless face. 

The woman was a court missionary; one of a 
number of men and women who worked among the 
slums and the criminal class, and performed what 
deeds of kindness and help were within their 
power. They visited the police court each day, and 


had a standing there. The judge often conferred 
with them, and usually granted them any request 
for a withholding of sentence, in order that they 
might try their kinder hand. 

Next came a young woman with a babe wrap- 
ped in the shawl that covered her own shoulders. 
She had been found drunk in the street. She cried 
piteously when she stood at the bar, and did not 
look up at the judge. She was also handed over to 
the court missionary, who talked to her a few min- 
utes, gave her a piece of money, and showed her out 
of the room. 

Following her was another young woman. She 
had been intoxicated and boisterous. Her husband 
came forward from among the crowd of policemen, 
paid her fine, and took her away. 

"Thomas and Susan Loring," read the clerk, 
and the two stepped forward. Elder Donaldson 
looked at Willard, who was gazing fixedly at these, 
his distant kinsfolk. Sober and moderately clean 
as they were that morning, they were not a bad look- 
ing pair. The judge knew them, and he gave them a 
severe reprimand. They stood and humbly said, 
Yes, your honor," and "No, your honor." This 



being the first time they had been there together, 
their position was especially humiliating. They did 
not know that the well-dressed young man sitting a 
few feet away was their American relative. They 
were given seven days, or a fine of five shillings, and 
then they were sent down with the rest of the con- 

"I've seen enough of this," whispered Willard 
to his companion, as they went out into the hall. 

But their friend, the inspector, urged them to 
look through the prison, and as he offered to show 
them around, they accepted his kindness. They saw 
nothing peculiarly different from other jails in the 
stone cells and iron doors. This jail was for the tran- 
sients only; the prison for long terms was out on the 
hills, some miles from the city. 

Down in the large room below the court cham- 
ber, there was a crowd of condemned prisoners. A 
good many of them crowded around a big iron gate 
which led to the open. On the outside of this gate 
were also a good many people. The visitors were 
told that those on the outside were there to pay the 
fines of friends within, and thus secure their liberty. 
Some were standing conversing between the bars, 


others of the prisoners were eagerly looking to see 
if there were any helping friends without, while 
others knowing that there was no such help for them, 
walked moodily around the room, or sat on the seats 
in the farthest corners. 

In one of the small cells, which the inspector said 
was for boys, the visitors read, among many odd 
scribblings on the walls, this inscription: "Seven 
days for pinching a duck." 

When they had made the round of the building, 
court was over, and the officers were accepting fines 
and releasing prisoners at the big gate. As they 
stood watching the proceedings, Willard saw Nora 
Loring in the crowd outside. The two elders with- 
drew, so that they could see, but not be seen. Nora 
stood with head bowed quietly waiting. When her 
turn came, she paid the money, ten shillings, and 
her brother and his wife were free again. As far as 
the two elders could see or hear, Nora said not a 
word to them. They went their way, and she went 

"Ten shillings is a lot of money for Nora to pay," 
said Willard to his companion. "Think what labor, 


what sacrifice those ten shillings represent. Do those 
two released prisoners appreciate it?" 

But the other could not answer. 

They took the car for home, but rode by their 
lodgings out into the park. 

"I want a change/' said Willard. 

It was early afternoon, and a beautiful day. 
The two young men strolled around for a short time, 
and then sat down on a bench by the fountain. 

There is only a penny ride between the two ex- 
tremes of life in an English city. The slums are at 
one end, with their narrow, dirty streets, and ugly, 
dirty houses; with their ugly, dirty people; with their 
poverty and their degradation. The park is at the 
other end of the penny ride, with its beautiful trees 
and flowers and walks; with its water and swans 
and pleasure boats; with its quiet and pure, balmy 
air; with its neatly dressed, pretty children playing 
on the grass; with its display of wealth and comfort 
and leisure; with its culture and refinement. 

The English parks are in very deed oases in the 
desert, and the two "Mormon" elders could breathe 


freely again, as they sat and drank in the beauty of 
sight and sound around them. 

"It's like coming from hell to heaven," said 



England is one great, beautiful garden, with a 
goodly number of big, black, ugly spots in it. The 
spots are towns, begrimed with the dirt and smoke of 
mines, mills, and traffic. As the parks in the cities are 
beauty spots in a wilderness of ugliness, so the towns, 
as a rule, are unsightly blotches on the pleasant face 
of the land. In England, one may understand the 
aptness of the saying that, "God made the country 
and man made the town." All this is especially true 
of northern and middle England, in the region of 
the mines and mills. 

A large number of English people seldom enjoy 
the beautiful country they live in. To the workers 
in the big cities, life is a daily grind, amid a world of 
blackened brick and stone; and so it is no wonder 
that these workers, whenever opportunity affords, 
get away from the towns and make excursions into 


the country, to enjoy for a day the green fields and 
blue sky. 

Elder Willard Dean and Sister Elsa Fernley 
were talking about this very subject that afternoon, 
as they were walking side by side on the footpath 
which extended from highway to highway across the 
fields. The Stonedale Sunday school was having 
its annual picnic outing that afternoon. Nearly all 
the Saints were out, and a number of elders from 
nearby branches were in attendance. The day was 
beautiful. The thin, white clouds which floated 
across a skv of blue were not storm clouds. Yes; 
the sky can become blue in England, although some 
people who are more observant of the dreary than 
they are of the cheerful, tell us differently. The air, 
laden with field-gathered aroma, was soft and mild. 

The gathering was to be at the Springs, about a 
mile from Stonedale, reached by a walk over hill 
and dale. As the Saints and their friends could not 
all go at one time, they went in small parties. Wil- 
lard walked out with a group in the middle of the 
afternoon, among which were Sister Fernley, Elsa 
and Bessie. Willard and Elsa brought up the rear, 
Willard with a big lunch basket and Elsa swinging 




a pretty sunshade. Their conversation had taken 
quite a serious turn, and that was the reason, no 
doubt, why the rest of the party went on ahead and 
left them together. 

"You know," Willard was saying, "I had an 
idea that England was a dull, dreary land, where it 
rained practically all the time." 

'How did you get such an idea?" she asked. 
'Well, I don't know exactly; but many people 
who have been here have given us that impression. 
I think, however, I have discovered one reason why 
travelers get such misconceptions of your country. 
It is this: Many of them are whisked across the coun- 
try by your fast trains, ofttimes by night. The be- 
ginnings and endings of the journey are in the traf- 
fic section of some big city. Perhaps there is a fog, 
or it is raining, and then the weary traveler looks 
around on the dreary scene and says, 'And this is 
England?' Could he get out into the country for a 
few weeks in the summer, and walk through Eng- 
land's green fields and lanes, he would form quite a 
different opinion." 

"And so you think we have a beautiful coun- 
try?" asked Elsa, as she changed her parasol to the 


other hand. This change gave her no shade, but it 
permitted her to get a better look at her companion. 

"Yes; your country is a continual delight to me. 
You see it is so different from ours at home." 

"In what way is it so different? Tell me about 

rit," she urged. 
"Well, you must remember that we live in what 
is called America's arid region, which at one time 
was considered a vast, worthless area. Sometimes 
in the summer it does not rain for two months. You 
can perhaps imagine what the country looks like at 
the end of that time. Outside of the irrigated dis- 
tricts, everything is brown or bare. The hot sun 
has baked the whole land. The mountains, which 
were grass-covered in the spring, become dry and 
barren. Towards autumn, the fields become yellow. 
When the grain is cut, the brown stubble remains. 
Dust gathers on trees, fences and roadsides. Then 
comes the winter, and the snow covers the hills. 
Sometimes it lies in the valleys for weeks at a time. 
Then it is beautiful. You cannot think how grand 
it is, expecially at night. Then the air is keenly 
sharp. The sky is an intensely blue vault, without 
a cloud, and studded with countless stars of diamond 


brilliancy. The earth is pure white. Add to this 
scene the merry jingle of sleigh bells, and the shouts 
I of the happy young people — oh my!" 

Elsa was interested. She had started him to 
talking, which was not a very easy thing to do, she 
had learned before this. 

"So you see, we have many kinds of weather in 
Utah, and the changes are marked. Here in England 
there is more of a uniformity. You have green fields 
the year round. True, there is much rain; but I 
like rain, and besides, rain settles the dust, washes 
the trees, and decorates every nook and corner where 
there is soil with flowers and grass. I think you 
English people don't fully appreciate your climate. 
When the weather becomes comfortably warm, you 
call it 'awfully hot/ and when it is otherwise, it is 
'dreadfully naa-sty' — but I'm doing all the talking; 
I want to hear you talk about England." 

The girl laughed. Her cheeks were rosy-red; 
and her eyes beamed. 

"I'm glad you like England," she said. "Some 
of the elders can see nothing good here. I heard one 
elder say that he would rather see the stones and dust 








r- 1 





in the streets of his home town than all the green 
lanes in England." 

"He was foolish," said he. 

"No; he was simply homesick," she corrected. 
"Besides, he had left behind someone very dear to 

"Yes; parents, brothers and sisters." 

"Elder Dean, don't play stupid. Doesn't every 
young elder have a sweetheart at home?" 

"Not everyone — I know one who hasn't." 

"Oh, they all say that." 

"I never had a sweetheart in my life." 

He said it quite soberly, and she made no reply ; 
but she tilted the sunshade so that he could not see 
her face for a moment. Bessie had lingered, but now 
came up and offered to carry the basket for a time. 
He would not hear of it. The path led into a highway 
again. On one side was a stone wall, old and moss- 
covered. On the other side was a holly hedge, its 
bright green leaves shining in the sun. The trees on 
each side ofttimes met overhead. The picnicers 
passed beautiful country villas. How cool and rest- 
ful they were, covered with vines, shaded with trees, 
and surrounded with grass and flowers! 


"The stately homes of England— 

How beautiful they stand, 

Amid their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land," 

repeated Elsa. 

They passed a typical English country village, 
and then followed a road which led through high 
banks of shrubbery. A stone wall was scaled by the 
aid of a stile, near the borders of a small lake. Near 
the stile, a young couple was seated on the grass, in- 
tent upon a book. Bessie soon joined her mother 

"When I look at your country," said Willard, 
"I no longer wonder why the ancient Danes wanted 
it, or why men have fought for its possession for a 
thousand years past; — by the way, I have been read- 
ing the little book you loaned me. I have known for 
years of Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies, but have not 
read it before. I brought the book with me." 
How do you like it?" 

It is full of beautiful thoughts. Here, for 
instance, is a passage from his 'Of Queens' Gardens' 
which came to my mind when we were talking of 
the contrasts between your city and country life." 











They paused on the last stile long enough for 
him to take his book from his pocket, find the passage 
and read it. "Ruskin here speaks of the need of a 
little 'wild and fair nature' for the children to en- 
joy," said Willard, "and then he continues, speaking 
to the English people : 'Suppose you had each, at the 
back of your houses, a garden large enough for your 
children to play in, with just as much lawn as would 
give them room to run — no more — and that you 
could not change your abode; but that, if you chose, 
you could double your income, or quadruple it, by 
digging a coal shaft in the middle of the lawn, 
and turning the flower-beds into heaps of coal. 
Would you do it? I hope not. I can tell you, you 
would be wrong if you did, though it gave you an 
income of sixty-fold instead of four-fold. 

" 'Yet this is what you are doing with all Eng- 
land. The whole country is but a little garden, not 
more than enough for your children to run on the 

lawns of, if you would let them all run there. And 
this little garden you will turn into furnace ground, 
and fill with heaps of cinders, if you can; and those 
children of yours, not you, will suffer for it.' I put 
a mark by that passage in your book," said Wil- 
lard. "I was tempted to mark many others." 


The Springs were now reached. A number of 
people had already arrived, and the games were set 
going. Then they ate their lunch, spread on the 
grass by the hillside. The afternoon continued 
warm. More people arrived later, and towards 
evening there were quite a number present. 

After a heated game of ball, Willard and Elsa 
found themselves seated on the hillside overlooking 
the pleasure grounds. That they were quite alone, was 
not Willard's contriving. When he had reclined 
in the grass and fanned his warm face with Elsa's 
sailor hat for a few moments, the fact that they 
were alone came to him. Perhaps they had been too 
much alone. He did not want to do anything that 
would cause talk among the Saints; but they were in 
full view of the whole pleasure party, so he could be 
doing no indiscreet act in simply sitting there. 

The view from the hill was an interesting one. 
Away to the right stretched the big, black, smoky 
city, and in that direction a forest of chimneys reach- 
ed into the air. In front, the valley opened out. 
The town had extended a long arm into the valley, 
and there were a number of mills here, too. Be- 
yond the valley were the hills, dotted with homes, 
























and checkered with fields, bordered by stone walls. 
Woods extended nearly the whole length of the hill- 
top, pierced here and there by a church spire. Out 
beyond the houses, down in the valley to the left, 
could be seen a small stream, while a canal threaded 
its way alongside. A number of boats moved slowly 
along its shining surface, drawn by a horse on the 

Willard Dean and Elsa Fernley sat for some 
time looking at the scene before them. 

"It's your turn to talk," said he. 

"Shall I repeat what Shakespeare says of Eng- 

"Yes; do." 

"This is what he says: It is found in Richard II : 

'This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, 
This earth_of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
This other Eden, demi-paradise, 
This fortress built by Nature for herself 
Against infection and the hand of war, 
This happy breed of men, this little world, 
This precious stone set in the silver sea, 
Which serves it in the office of a wall 
Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
Against the envy of less happier lands, 
This blessed plat, this earth, this realm, this England." 


"Shakespeare sums it up pretty well," replied 
he. "Every line counts." 

Then Elsa talked, and the young man listened ; 
and as she talked she grew confidential. She told 
him of her early girlhood days, and the trials which 
she had endured even then. 

"It seemed to me that I was different from the 
other girls," she said. "Perhaps I was more serious, 
for my set was a flighty lot — all the talk was of beaus 
and the like. I remember how lonesome I used to 
feel, even when there was no discernible reason, for 
it. I have never had to work in the mills. After 
school I would often ramble all alone out in the fields 
and woods, and many a time have I been out here to 
the Springs. I used to take a copy of Wordsworth 
with me and read his beautiful descriptions of nature 
while in the midst of it. Truly, also, 

M I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills." 

Wordsworth, you know, lived in England's beauti- 
ful lake region, and the beauty of the country has 
entered into his poems. I think now that those early 
years were a preparation for what was coming, when 
I was to hear the gospel." 









They both sat on the grass, he a little above her. 
While she talked, she looked out over the children 
playing below them, and he looked at her. He 
couldn't help it, because, was she not directly in his 
line of vision? The breeze blew her hair about her 
face — it had become somewhat ruffled by her romp- 
ing play in the ball game — and as she tried to tuck it 
into orderly place, she smiled up into the face above 

There was to be no love making! Willard knew 
it, and often he repeated it to himself. He thought 
he was safe, but again there came to him, as he look- 
ed into those laughing eyes for just a moment, some- 
thing inexpressibly sweet and yet akin to fear. No 
one had ever looked at him like that before. No one 
had ever confided to him as this girl had the very 
secrets of her heart. No one had ever spoken so soft- 
ly and sweetly. No one had ever trusted him as she 
did; and in it all there was danger to the heart of the 
susceptible, inexperienced boy who ofttimes was 
heart-hungry himself. 

The fear element of his emotions grew stronger. 
First he feared for himself, then fcr her. What if she 
should acquire more than a brotherly fondness for 


him? There was no reason why she should, and yet 
she might. That would never do. He had suffered 
once, he told himself, and he desired for no soul that 
experience. He shuddered when he thought that he 
might be the cause. What, if anything, had he done 
in this case? He had walked and talked only. He 
had been very interested, it is true, but their talks 
had been strictly within proper bounds. And yet, 
why did she look at him like that? Why had her 
hand lingered softly in his, whenever he had said 

The sun went down over the western hill. Long 
shadows crept out over the valley below and up the 
distant hillside. The mellow haze in which the dis- 
tant landscape lay bathed took upon itself a deeper 
tint of pearly blue. The picnicers now gathered 
in one group on the hillside below, and they motioned 
for Willard and Elsa to join them, which they did. 
Then songs were sung — the soul inspiring Latter- 
day Saints hymns. Passers-by paused to listen. 
Poems were recited, and dialect stories were told. 
Who that has ever enjoyed these outings in the mis- 
sion field will ever forget the simple joys and pure 
delights of such gatherings? 


Then began the walk homeward. Willard pur- 
posely avoided Elsa, who chatted gaily with a group 
of friends. Twice they met, but each time Willard 
managed to become separated. Before the fields 
were crossed, Elsa became noticeably quiet. After 
a time she quickened her pace, and he saw her no 
more until they reached home. He parted with 
Sister Fernley and Bessie at the door, but Elsa was 
not to be seen. 

"Where is Elsa?" he inquired. 

"She must have come on ahead," replied her 
mother. "She complained of a headache." 

"HI go in and say goodnight," he said. 

She was sitting by an open window, resting her 
head on the casement, and looking out into the com- 
ing night. 

"I have come to say goodnight," he said. 

She arose, and took his hand. "Goodnight," 

she said simply and softly. There was a slight tremor 
in her voice. Her face was a little pale, and her 
eyes were swimming. Willard held her hand for a 
moment, and then saying goodnight turned and left. 
The emotions within himself seemed to accumulate 
and materialize into a big hard lump in his breast, 
and oh, how it did hurt! 


The next day Willard had a long confidential 
talk with his conference president; and a week later 
Elder Willard Dean received from the Liverpool 
office a communication transferring him from the 
Leeds to the London conference. 




Willard Dean made short work of his parting 
with the Sisters Fernley. He lingered longer with 
some of the other Saints — he felt safer with them. 
He disliked to part with his companion, Elder Don- 
aldson, as he had learned to love him dearly; how- 
ever, Elder Donaldson promised to visit him in Lon- 
don some time later. 

When Willard went to say goodby to Cousins 
Nancy and Nora, he was somewhat surprised to see 
how keenly they felt the parting. Why must he go? 
they enquired. Was he not doing well enough where 
he was? They would miss him very much. 

"You see," said the old lady, as she held his 
hand in her bony one and stroked it gently, "we 
haven't many real friends. We are here, Nora and I, 
struggling to live and help others a little. Your 
coming has been the only ray of sunshine which we 


have received for a long time — and now you are go- 
ing, too." 

Willard had invited them a number of times to 
attend the meetings of the Saints, but so far they 
had not done so. When pressed for a reason he had 
been told that they had no clothes fit to go to church 
in; and he had tried to convince them that most of 
the Saints were poor people like themselves. His 
heart went out to them now, and he longed to help 
them. He knew that the greatest help he could give 
them was to get them interested in the gospel; and 
so he told them again of the other elders and how 
pleased the Saints would be to welcome them. When 
he arose to go, Nora walked out with him. 

"It is quite dark," she said. "May I walk along 
with you a short distance?" 

"Why, certainly; but why did you say that 
about it's being dark?" 

"Never mind; I know." 

She chose the darkest side of the streets as they 
walked. The young man surmised that she did this 
for his sake, and not for her own. 

"I want to tell you," she said, "that I have at- 
tended most of your street meetings lately, although 


you have not seen me. I have taken good care that 
you should not. I cannot keep away. Something 
draws me to what is said, and the manner the elders 
say it. I wanted to tell you this before you left." 

The girl's usually colorless cheeks seemed to 
glow, and her dark eyes beamed. 

"Go to our meetings," urged he. "I shall see 
that Elder Donaldson visits you. Talk to him, and 
let him talk to you. It will do you good." 

"I will try," she said. "Good night, I must not 
go farther." 

"Good night, and God bless you," replied Wil- 
lard, as he shook her hand warmly. 

He went on, but she stood still. The "God bless 
you" rang in her ears as the sweet music of bells. 
She had never heard anything quite like those words 
before; and as she stood there looking after the re- 
treating figure of the elder, her heart was touched, 
and she had an assurance that here at last was a 
man, a pure man, one that she could trust implicitly. 
And this man was going away. Well, such acquaint- 
ance had been given to her momentarily only — 
such had been her lot in life. 

The train which carried Willard Dean south- 


ward to London was an express, and stopped only at 
a number of the larger cities. The ride was a delight- 
ful one, through England's hills, fields and gardens. 
Willard was alone in the compartment most of the 
time. He tried to read, but did very little of that, as 
he kept looking out of the open window. When his 
thoughts were not on the flying landscape, they were 
back with the friends whom he had just left. The 
reason for his leaving was uppermost in his mind, 
and he wondered if he was acting cowardly in thus 
running away from temptation. But his better sense 
told him that the only safe and wise thing to do in 
his case was to get away as far as possible from Stone- 

The train rolled on through alternating sunshine 
and showers. Towards the close of the afternoon 
Willard expected every town to be London, but the 
train sped out again across another stretch of coun- 
try, then into a town and out into an open space 
again. The towns became larger and consequently 
the space between them smaller. They were now in 
the suburbs of the great city. 

At last there was no break in the houses; yet 
the train went on with undiminished speed, over 


bridges, under bridges, through streets, across 
streets, now underground, and now above the long 
rows of chimneys, with their chimney pots on top. 
The air was no longer clear. The sun was hidden in 
smoke. There was a continuous tooting of locomo- 
tives and rumble of trains coming and going. On 
they went. Were they not in London yet? 

Then the noises of the city, coming in such num- 
bers and rapidity, soon blended into one continuous 
roar. Willard began to realize that he was in London 
at last. The train slowed up and stopped. 'Tickets, 
please!" shouted the guards as the collection was 
made, and Willard knew that this was the last stop 
before che end of the journey. Once more the train 
moved, and in a few minutes the great busy station 
was reached. 

Willard Dean spent the remainder of the sum- 
mer in London, and he learned to know some of the 
many phases of that "mighty mother city of our race, 
the great distributing heart of our traditional life." 
Willard had read of London, but had hardly expected 
to live in the city. But now the hours of loneliness 
on the farm which he had devoted to reading paid 
him back with interest. When he arrived in the city 


there was not one soul that he was aware of, which 
he knew, but everywhere he met names and places 
that appealed to him as old friends. 

The young man saw London in a good many 
moods, for the city has moods as well as the person 
who sees it. The first thing that came to Willard 
the day he arrived was: "This is London — London, 
the great and only London." He ought, perhaps, to 
have been over-awed with the greatness of his en- 
vironment, but he wasn't. His own feelings re- 
minded him of his first reading of Shakespeare: In 
order to have the least semblance of enjoyment in 
the performance, he had to repeat to himself, 'This 
is Shakespeare. I am reading Shakespeare, the 
great Shakespeare." 

In one of the first letters which Willard sent 
home from London, he described it thus: "London is 
a low, flat, ugly, groveling thing, spreading out over 
the green country on every hand, reaching out its 
grimy limbs over the beautiful earth." Again, a 
little later, he said: "London is not a city — it is a 
world by itself, or at least it has that appearance. I 
suppose that London contains people from every 
country on the globe. London hardly needs the light 


— > 





of heaven — I am told that it doesn't get much of it 
during the winter — for it seems an all and self-suf- 
ficient thing in itself, going on without the aid of 
sun or moon or stars, wrapped up in its own busy-go- 
ing affairs day and night." 

Willard was disappointed in the Thames. He 
saw it first near the Houses of Parliament, and found 
it to be a sluggish river with very little life on it 
save a few freight barges. However, lower down, 
he found very much traffic, while farther above, it 
becomes a pleasure stream for pleasure seekers. 
When he saw London bridge, he remembered how in 
childhood they had played a game which said that 
London bridge was falling down. As he stood on 
the bridge and watched the traffic, his mind wan- 
dered away from the busy scene to a more quiet one 
far away in the valleys of Utah. The last boy, he 
himself, had been caught by the falling "bridge" — the 
arms of two girls — and having decided that he liked 
oranges better than lemons he had been ranged on 
the "orange" side. Willard was the only boy on his 
side, and he had pulled for victory with all his 
strength. But it was of no use, as the other side had 
won, and Grace Wells had blamed him for the de- 


feat. He remembered that day as he stood on the 
real London bridge. 

Willard did the usual work of tracting and hold- 
ing street meetings. At first he felt his lonesome- 
ness keenly. Millions of people were all around him, 
yet he was at times lonesome to a degree never be- 
fore experienced. He had been in the desert sur- 
rounded by nothing but sand and scrub-brush. That 
had been sublime solitude, and his heart had gone 
out to his God — he had not been lonesome. Here 
were vast hurrying crowds; here were life and mo- 
tion, here were trade and business; while on the 
corner near the Bank of England more people passed 
him than would have done in any other spot on the 
earth, so he was really in the center of the world — 
and yet he was unutterably lonesome, because he 
had not one soul to whom he could speak and tell 
what was in his heart. 

It was not often that Willard took a day off 
from his work. When he was not tracting or visit- 
ing he was studying. He felt the need of more study 
as he came in contact with men of all classes; and the 
young elder grew wonderfully in the power to grasp 
the truth and make practical application of it. The 



knowledge, somewhat general and abstract, which 
he had gained in his Sunday School and Mutual now 
came back to him and became specialized into some- 
thing tangible that he could apply to the work in 
hand. The beauties of the gospel also opened up to 
him, and his testimony was strengthened according- 
ly. He liked the street work. Every evening when 
the weather permitted the elders were out on the 
streets. They met with much indifference and some 
opposition, but Willard had so far learned to control 
himself that he could go right on talking amid noise 
and interruptions. To him there was inspiration in 
the thought that each audience which they addressed 
was nearly if not entirely a new one, and that per- 
chance among that audience there would be one soul 
seeking for and hungering after the truth. At every 
door which he visited with tracts he would say to 

himself, "Perhaps in this house is some one waiting 
for the truth," and though he was disappointed time 
and time again, the thought became an eternal hope 
that led him on day by day. "And if it so be that you 
should labor all your days in crying repentance unto 
this people, and bring save it be one soul unto me, 
how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom 
of my Father." 


One Saturday afternoon Willard took a holi- 
day, and he spent most of it seeing London from the 
top of a bus, this being the most inexpensive way of 
seeing the city. The day was uncommonly warm, 
and the city people were out in summer attire. Wil- 
lard liked to study people and faces, and on top of a 
bus is an ideal place for this. It had impressed Wil- 
lard, as it has many others, that it is a strange thing 
for the biggest city in the world to still have horse 
cars as the chief method of street transportation. 
Willard usually got a seat well up in front near the 
driver to get away from the smokers, and to ask ques- 
tions of the driver whom he usually found very ac- 
commodating and willing to talk. Willard had 
thought that he himself could drive a team very 
well, but when he had seen the London bus driver, 
he concluded he had yet something to learn. It was 
always one of the wonders of London — this constant 

stream of vehicles, dashing here and there, in and 
out of narrow streets, around corners and other ve- 
hicles, always seemingly just going to collide with 
something, but never doing it. The drivers went 
easily and safely through spaces with but a few in- 
ches to spare. The streets were ofttimes slippery, 
yet the horses were not allowed sharp-shod shoes. 

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Willard mounted a bus in Kingsland Road, 
going south. He rode on past Shoreditch into 
Bishopsgate. Then past the busy Liverpool Street 
railway station, into the narrow Threadneedle 
Street, where the traffic became so congested that 
progress was slow. He got off at the bank corner and 
walked along Cheapsides to St. Pauls. The day was 
so fine that he did not wish to go inside the great 
cathedral, so he went on around to Paternoster 
Row, that extremely narrow street devoted to print- 
ers and book stalls. He lingered here for some time 
looking at the books, and thus by way of Amen Cor- 
ner he passed out into Ludgate Hill and Circus. In 
Fleet Street he read the signs of the great London 
newspapers and paused long enough by the window 
of the Illustrated London News to look at the pictures 
in the latest edition. He remembered what a treas- 
ure a big bound volume of this paper had been to 
him as a child. 

At the end of Fleet Street are the Law Courts, 
and Willard turned aside to the Inner Temple and 
took a look at the grave of Oliver Goldsmith. Then 
he came out on to the busy Strand, and here he again 
took a cab to Charing Cross and Trafalgar Square. 


He rode along Pall Mall to Regent Street; crossed 
Piccadilly Circus to the Quadrant; then on up to the 
finest part of Regent Street where fashionable Lon- 
don does its shopping; then turned westward again 
to Oxford Street, and along to Hyde Park. 

Willard got down from the bus at the Marble 
Arch and walked into the Park. A good many people 
were strolling about or lying on the grass, but he 
chose a path that led him into the middle of the 
great park. Here are nearly four-hundred acres of 
grass and trees lying in the heart of a great city. - As 
Willard walked away from the street, the noises of 
the city became less distinct, even as the houses 
were hidden by the distant trees. When in the mid- 
dle of the park he could easily imagine himself in 
some far-away country district. As he lay on the 
grass, the city was nearly hidden from his view, and 
its noises now came to him like a low murmur, as 
if it might have been the rustle of waving fields of 
wheat or the babble of a brook over the stones. 

The sun shone in the sky above him, not with 
the fierce heat to which he was accustomed at home, 
but with a soft mildness that did not glare or burn. 
Everything around him was beautifully green, and 







the young man lay musing, letting the beauty of the 
scene distil upon his heart. He seemed to be quite 
alone. Very few people passed, and he was not dis- 
turbed. On one side of the park only could he see 
a few houses, hidden behind trees. In the dim, hazy 
distance of the opposite direction a skyline of house- 
tops could be seen as if over there were another and 
a more enchanted city, not a part of the black, noisy, 
commonplace town which he had just left. 

In the midst of millions he was once again alone. 
After all, how can one get away from the fact that 
each human soul, however closely connected it may 
be to other souls, is yet separate and distinct? Here 
were six millions of human beings collected into one 
small area of earth, crowding close together, on the 
ground, above the ground, under the ground. Each 
was dependent upon the other for means of sus- 
taining life. And the whole "ant-bed" was one in- 
tricate machine wherein each soul fitted in and play- 
ed his part. And yet within each of these crawling 
specks of life is a world, though yet in embryo, — a 
world of thought, a world of feeling, a world of action. 
Each soul is a child of the great Father of all, par- 
taking of the nature of that Parent who had given 


all existence. Each is a unit, a whole. Each had 
been given his agency to act and to be acted upon. 
What, then, thought Willard, as his mind went out 
on these things, what force can move these many- 
people out of the dead level of thought and action to 
something higher? What power could be given them 
by which they could get out from the sin and misery 
with which they are carrying on an unequal struggle? 
The answer came to Willard that afternoon in 
rather an incomplete form; but it set up a train of 
thoughts which was somewhat new to him, and yet 
which appealed to him forcibly. Of course, the first 
answer to such a question would be: The gospel of 
Jesus Christ, being the power of God unto salvation, 
is the greatest force known to uplift and to save; and 
yet, away down somewhere among the foundation 
stones of this gospel lies individuality. "I am an 
eternal being," said Willard to himself. "Within 
me are latent powers, which if developed .will give 
me the strength needed to go on in the scaii of prog- 
ress. Everything lies, potentially, within me, even 
now. As an individual, no other person in all creation 
is like me — I am like no one else. That essential 
ego which I call T is of a divine nature, therefore 


good. (The fact that I am here in my second estate 
proves that thus far I have been loyal to my divine 
nature. ) True progress, therefore, lies in developing 
the dormant possibilities of one's self. I must not 
think that any other human being can either help 
me or hinder me very much when it comes to working 
out a salvation. I must become my true and heaven- 
appointed self. I am in the lineage of the Gods, and 
therefore, of pure stock. If I get into bad ways or 
engraft into myself bad habits, I become deformed; 
and that deformity is in proportion to the distance 
which I wander from the straight path, or sink into 
the depths of sin. My only safety, then, is in always 
doing the right, and thus being true to myself' — 
and Shakespeare's lines came to him: 

"To thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man." 

WiP \ could not get much further. Beyond 
the state*., cjnt of a few facts and conclusions he could 
not go; but he tried to keep within his grasp some of 
the impressions which had come to him. It seemed 
to him that the Lord had taken him to the border- 
land of a great light and had given him a glimpse of 
the glories within. 


The afternoon was passing. Willard walked on 
through the park, crossed the Serpentine by the 
bridge, and came to Rotten Row. Fashionable Lon- 
don had had their driving and riding, and had gone 
home. A few automobiles sped over the roadway, 
and a number of carriages were leisurely rolling along 
the Row. From Hyde Park Corner he walked 
through Green Park past Buckingham Palace and 
into James Park. Here he paused to look at the 
flowers and the swans on the lake, then made his way 
to Charing Cross where he took a bus for home. 






The summer had nearly passed before Willard 
Dean found John Loring, Nancy Loring's son, and 
called on him. The elder had left his first field in 
such a hurry that he had failed to get Mr. Loring's 
address, so he had sent for it later. John Loring was 
a printer. He was married and had two children. 
They lived in a street off Hackney Downs. 

When Willard called on them he was kindly re- 
ceived. They were pleased to meet a distant relative 
from America. However, John Loring had no use 
for Willard's religion, as he had an abundance of his 
own; in fact, he had received a good deal some two 
years ago, all at once, at the time he was "saved." 
On that important occasion he had received enough 
to last him through this life and into eternity, he 
said; and so, of course, he had no. use for. apy -more, 


especially of the kind which the young "Mormon" 
elder brought to him. 

Mr. Loring was strictly a temperate man. He 
knew what the family had to contend against, and so 
he wisely abstained altogether from touching the 
dangerous drink. But for all his temperance and his 
religion, John Loring was a weakling. Willard 
thought sometimes that the man did not have char- 
acter enough to move in the direction of either right 
or wrong. His wife was the manager. She carried the 
purse and kept the accounts, and it went hard with 
John Loring if he could not account for every penny 
of his wages on a Saturday night. To the wife, then, 
was due much of the credit of John Loring's temper- 
ate, Christian life. 

During the dark, rainy season Willard often 
called at the Loring's. When the fog was black 
without, the cheerful fire in Mrs. Loring's grate was 
good to see and feel. She was a model house-keeper, 
clean and neat. The brass fender always shone as if 
new. The curtains were snowy white. The floor was 
wonderfully free from dust or dirt. John always took 
off his boo<:s when he came home and put on his 
slippers which were by the door waiting for him. 


Willard was very careful to clean his shoes before he 
came in. The children, a boy and a girl, were always 
scrupulously clean; and so Willard took great delight 
in playing with them — something he could not very 
often do with the children in many of the families 
where he visited. One of the "funny things" to 
Willard was Mrs. Loring's front parlor. It was a 
very small room, so crowded with furniture and bric- 
a-brac that Willard always went into it with fear 
that he might disturb something. In an unguarded 
moment he might knock a frail ornament from its 
position with disastrous results. He had seen a good 
many such English parlors, which seemed to him not 
for use, but a storehouse for bric-a-brac; but this, 
to use his own expression, "was the limit." Willard 
avoided the parlor as much as possible. He was 
much more comfortable in the kitchen, playing with 
the children and talking to Mrs. Loring. 

One dark, wet afternoon Willard called early. 
The fog had crept up from the river, and had that 
yellow tinge peculiar to London. Early in the after- 
noon the fog became black, and the life of the city 
was checked to a slower movement — that was all; 
it went on regardless of wet or fog or darkness. 



Willard raised the rusty knocker on the front 
door of the Loring house and gave a number of loud 
raps. Mrs. Loring soon let him in and led the way 
into the dining room, where to his great surprise, 
he found Nora Loring sitting by the table. The table 
was spread and they were about to have their tea. 

"You are just in time, you see," said Mrs. Lor- 
ing. "You are acquainted with Nora, I under- 

"Yes, indeed," he replied as he shook her hand. 
"What brought you to London?" 

"Well, — the train, of course," — this with a 
faint effort at a smile. Then soberly: "You haven't 
heard of mother's death?" 

Willard expressed his great surprise at the news. 
He had not called on the Lorings for ten days, and 
so had not been informed. 

"Yes," said the girl. "Mother's gone, I hope 
to a better and happier world. She had a hard life. 
She has tasted of the very bitter; I hope heaven will 
be sweet to her because of it." 

The girl seemed more free than usual to talk. 

"Come, we will have our tea together," said 
Mrs. Loring. 


Willard greeted the children, and then sat down 
to the table with the little company. 

"I was just pouring out the tea as you knocked," 
said the housewife, "when Nora here surprised me by 
saying that she no longer drank tea. Would I give 
her a little hot water instead? I nearly spilled my 
own tea in astonishment. She acts just as you did, 
Elder Dean, the first time you visited us." 

There was a genuine blush on the face of the 
girl, and she was somewhat embarrassed; but she was 

"You aren't a 'Mormon,' are you?" asked Mrs. 
Loring of the girl. 

"No," said Nora, "I — I suppose not. I don't 
think I'm good enough to be a 'Mormon.' " 

Her sister-in-law looked at her for a moment, 
and then she burst out into a merry laugh; but she 
said nothing. Willard could not keep his eyes off 
the girl. She was changed. There was more color 
in her cheeks, and they were rounder, he was sure. 
Two cups of hot water was poured out and but one 
of tea. Willard and Nora put milk and sugar into 
the clear water as Mrs. Loring put them into her tea. 

Tes," said Nora, after she had gained control 



of herself again, "I heard what Elders Donaldson and 
Dean said about tea, and I thought I would take 
their advice, at least, as an experiment. I haven't 
tasted tea for three months, and besides being con- 
siderable money ahead, I have gained in flesh and 
very much in spirits." 

Willard was pleased. Silently, slowly, un- 
observed ly the leaven of the gospel was working with 
this woman, as it does with all who honestly desire 
to know the truth and to do it. 

After the tea table was cleared they sat around 
the fireplace, talking. Willard learned the particu- 
lars of Mrs. Loring's death, learned also that she had 
carried with her a great liking for Willard and the 
elders. She had become quite a frequent visitor to 
the meetings of the Saints, and Nora had always 
been with her. After her mother's death, even the 
humble home which they had had was gone, and so 
she had come to London. 

Then Willard talked and the two women listen- 
ed. He experienced much freedom, and he was led 
along lines not usually discussed with beginners in 
the gospel. 

'Some people," said he, "believe that we are 



saved by faith alone, while another class claims that 
works is the only thing that counts, and that faith is 
nothing. Both are wrong. Faith and works must 
be combined. One without the other is incomplete. 
For instance, here is Mr. Loring — beg pardon, Mrs. 
Loring, if I am personal in making my illustration — 
it is all faith with him. He and those who believe 
with him hold that they of themselves can do 
nothing for their salvation. They have convinced 
themselves that they are nothing; they delight to 
call themselves 'worms of the dust, good-for- 
nothings, wholly corrupt,' etc. What does such a 
course of mind training lead to? Why, weakness of 
character; inability to take the initiative in any- 
thing; loss of power to take hold and to overcome 
temptation; lack of courage and of manhood. On 
the other hand, mind you, a faithless man is a blind, 
mechanical force. I don't believe there are many 
faithless men among those who do things, even if 
some of them call themselves such." 

Mr. Loring now came home, and Willard re- 
mained to supper. As they were eating, Mr. Loring 
turned to Nora and remarked: 

"I saw somebody on the street this afternoon. 


I was somewhat surprised as I thought he was in 

Nora evidently knew whom he meant, for she 
was all interest in a moment. 

"He was somewhat the worse for drink, I be- 
lieve,' ' continued Mr. Loring unconcernedly as he 
sipped his tea. 

Nora's face became pale for a moment, and to 
hide her agitation she turned and looked away. 

"But I am going to try to find him and take him 
to our revival meetings," said he. If he would only 
give himself to Christ— cast all his burden of sin on 
Him, he might be saved even yet." 

"Do you know what I believe?" spoke up Mrs. 

"What, my dear?" replied her husband. 

"I believe that if D wight Thornton would ex- 
ert himself just a little; would put into motion the 
little manhood he has — I suppose he has a little 
left — and then trust to the Lord to help him, he 
would do a far wiser thing than what you want him 
to do." 

Mr. Loring stared across the table at his wife in 
open-mouthed wonder. She often expressed herself 


forcibly on financial and other matters, but what did 
she know about religion? She was not even a "sav- 
ed" person, much to his own sorrow. Perhaps this 
display of heresy was due to the young "Mormon" 
elder. Before he had time to reply, however — it 
always took him some time to formulate a proper 
answer to his wife — Nora spoke up: 

"John, are there any men in your church?" 

"Why, certainly, there are men in our church. 
What a foolish question. Of course there are more 
women, but — " 

"I don't mean that. I have been looking for 
men, not worms of the dust — men with power with- 
in themselves to say "No" to wrong and "Yes" to 
right — men who are willing to take the blame for 
their own wrong-doings — men — well, just plain 

"You talk in riddles. What do you mean?" 

His sister did not answer, but Willard Dean 
understood what she meant. Presently Nora asked: 

"Where did you see him?" 

"On Piccadilly, going west." 

"Was there anyone with him?" 

"No, he was alone. Had the weather been fine, 


I should say that his destination was the grass in 
Hyde Park; he looked very much like a tramp." 

Nora became quiet, and the subject of conver- 
sation changed to other themes. In due time Willard 
said good-night. 

The next day the fog still hung over London, 
heavy, thick and black. The cabs traveled slowly 
through the darkness, their lamps sending but a 
glimmer of light into the street. Yet people were 
out. One would think that when such a blackness 
settled over the town, the people would go indoors 
and be content for a few hours by fire and light; 
but not so. The great pulse of the city is not so easily 

There was a great jam of people and vehicles 
on a corner in the Strand. Nora Loring wished to 
cross, but she with the others was held back by the 
uplifted hand of a policeman. The stream thus 
checked was soon a large gathering, waiting for an- 
other stream to get by in the street before them. 
Nora stood waiting patiently. She seemed to be in 
no great hurry, and when at last the policeman beck- 
oned the crowd forward, she remained at the rear 
until the crush was lessened. This policeman was a 



good-natured fellow, for he enforced his orders in a 
pleasant way. When Nora was just about to pass 
him and make a dart across the street, she heard 
someone say to him: 

Tor the sake of old times, help me tonight." 
Tf I give you money, you'll drink it up. I 
can't believe you," replied the officer. 

"Jack, I've a baby at home, a baby crying for 
bread. If you can't trust me, send and find out. 
Here — here is my address." 

Nora paused. She knew that voice and recog- 
nized the face, and she stood and listened. She press- 
ed closer, keeping in the shadow of the gas lamp. 
She heard the street and number repeated, and she 
remembered it. 

"Can't you see that I'm busy now?" said the 
officer, not unkindly. "Come again when this jam 
is over." 

The man walked away in the darkness without 

Nora did not cross the street as she had intend- 
ed. She stood for a moment in thought. Would he 
go home? No; not yet. She could get there before 
him, no doubt. She would try. She was not sure of 


the location of the street which she had heard, so 
she enquired. It was a long way off, so she would 
have to ride. This was favorable, because he doubt- 
less would walk. In the darkness and confusion she 
managed to get the right bus, and made progress 
towards her destination. She knew London fairly- 
well, and was not afraid. 

For nearly half an hour she rode, and then 
alighted at what she knew was a slummy street. 
After making some purchases at a shop, she walked 
on up the street for some distance, looking for the 
right number. She searched for some time before 
she found it and rang the bell. There was a faint 
jingle in the distant interior, and after a time the 
door was opened by a large, very dirty woman. 

'Does Dwight Thornton live here?" asked Nora. 
'E does when 'e's at 'ome," was the reply, 
"which isn't very hoften." 

"His child is here isn't it." 

"0, yes; poor kid! I'm a poor 'ooman myself 
and can't do much for it, but if it hadn't been for 
me, it'd a starved long 'go." 

'May I see her? It's a little girl, I understand." 

'Who be you?" 


ti t- 




"I am a friend of Mr. Thornton's, and I want 
to help the child. You can trust me, my good wo- 
man; I wouldn't hurt it for the world." 

Being assured of the visitor's good intentions, 
the woman let Nora in, and showed her up a flight 
of stairs into a dingy little back room. By the light 
of a low burning gas, Nora could see a bundle of rags 
in a corner and the little girl upon it. She turned up 
the light, and at the woman's look of enquiry as to 
who should pay the gas bill thus made large, she 
placed a shilling in her hand. At the additional noise 
and light, the child sat up and stared in open-eyed 
wonder. When Nora approached, she nestled down 
again and hid her face with the cover. 

"Don't be afraid, dearie," said the woman. 
" 'Ere's a lady come to see you. She won't 'arm you. 
Come, Nellie, sit hup." 

But Nellie hugged the ragged bed clothes tight. 

"Nellie," said Nora, drawing near to the corner, 
"see what I have brought you." She drew an apple 
from her bag and held it out. But the child did not 
look up. Then Nora rolled the apple on the floor, 
and it went bumping along the rough boards. The 
child heard and timidly peeped out. Nora held the 


apple up again. A small arm crept out from the rags 
and the apple was placed in the eager grasp. Then 
apple and hand disappeared under the clothes. 

The woman then retired, and Nora was left 
alone with the child. She looked around for a mo- 
ment at the dirty room and its meagre furniture and 
then at the child in the corner. This was his house, 
this was his child — he who could not be a man. And 
yet once there was manhood in Dwight Thornton. 
That was years ago before the demon drink had 
taken possession of the garnished house of the man; 
years ago when he and she had been together, had 
loved and planned and promised. She could see the 
green lanes of her native town where they had walk- 
ed in the evening and listened to the skylark; where 
he had gathered the first white hawthorn blossoms 
and had placed them in her hair, — yes, the dingy 
room vanished for a moment, and then there was a 
sound of someone approaching. Nora came back 
suddenly to the present. The footsteps passed the 
door and went on. 

Nellie had taken a bite from the apple. She now 
dared to look upon the giver, and began to be less 
afraid. Nora went close to the bedside, and taking 


from her bag some buns and an orange, placed them 
within reach of the child. 

"You are so hungry, I know," she said in a re- 
assuring tone. "Eat the bun first, then you may 
have the apple and this orange. Here, dear." 

In a few minutes Nora had the child on her lap, 
contentedly eating. She was a pale, half-starved 
little thing, with big eyes'looking out from the pinch- 
ed face. Her dress was dirty [and ragged, and her 
feet were bare. Nellie was three [years old. Nora 
knew the date when she was born. 

After a time the little one began to prattle. Her 
hunger had been satisfied, and she looked up wonder- 
ingly into the kind lady's face. 

"Is you my mama?" she asked. Nora did not 
reply, but she hugged the little one close. Nellie 
put her arms around the young woman's neck. 
"Ain't you my mama?" she repeated. 

Then the tears ran unhindered down Nora Lor- 
ing's cheek. She kissed the child's pale face, and 
stroked the tangled hair. The knocker sounded on 
the front door. 

"That is daddy," said Nellie. 


Nora hurriedly put the child on the bed and 
went out into the hall. She listened to the voices be- 
low, and heard Dwight Thornton talking to the wo- 
man who had let her in. She looked hurriedly into 
the room again and at Nellie sitting patiently on her 
bed, and then she sped softly along the corridor. 
Footsteps came nearer. She crouched into the 
shadow of a doorway as the man rushed past. He 
went on into the room, and she heard Nellie cry, 
"0, Daddy!" — Then she hurried down to the outer 
door which she carefully unlocked and opened. She 
slipped through the door and then closed it again. 

The fog was still over London — fog and black- 
ness, as it seemed to be also in the heart of Nora Lor- 
ing; and yet, as in the darkness and the dreariness 
of the city there are gleaming spots of light and cheer, 
so deep down in the girl's heart there glowed a little 
light which sent out a ray of hope — it was not much, 
but oh, what a comfort that little was in a world 
where all was darkness! 



Elder Donaldson was paying his farewell visit 
to Elder Dean in London. They had promised John 
Loring to attend with him a revival then being held 
in a nearby hall. 

On the evening appointed, these three made 
their way to the place of meeting. The two elders 
had seen many devices for the purpose of attracting 
sinners to repentance, but the big placard displayed 
at the entrance to the hall was the most startling they 
had ever seen. It read: "Stop! You Are Going to 
Hell! Come in and Receive Salvation." 

They went in, and Mr. Loring led them well 
up in front. He was one of the workers, and there- 
fore at home in the large hall which was well filled 
with people. The leading spirit of the revival and 


his singing assistant soon mounted the platform and 
took charge of the meeting. The singer had a good 
voice, and he led the congregation in a song. The 
first stanza or two were rather listlessly sung, but 
then the magnetic conductor gained power over the 
crowd, and soon he had them all singing lustily. The 
preacher uttered a short prayer, and then there was 
more singing. The sermon came next. It was of 
the "Come to Jesus" type, with the usual appeals 
for sinners to come just as they were, "come just 
now." The preacher told dramatically stories of 
saved and unsaved people, depicting in his most 
forceful manner the dire results which came to those 
who put off the day of salvation. 

Then there was more singing, with the apparent 
intent to work up the emotions of the people. The 
leader then asked all to bow their heads and join 
him in a prayer. He sat down in a chair before them, 
and with eyes wide open talked as to the Lord. Then 
he called for perfect silence, which was as sensational 
as the prayer. 

"Those who desire salvation, raise their hands," 
said the leader. "Everybody keep their heads bow- 
ed," he admonished, "this is a sacred place." As 


each hand was raised the preacher said, 'Thank 
you, brother; and you — and you." The silence soon 
became oppressing, and another song was sung. 
Then there was more praying and more calling for 
hands. Both the preacher and the singer were work- 
ing hard, while the large corps of helpers labored 
among the congregation. The scene now became 
extremely sensational. Those who had raised their 
hands as a token that they were waiting to "accept 
Christ" were asked to stand, and then to come for- 
ward to the front benches, there to cry out their 
confessions, to strip their souls naked before thou- 
sands of excited, whispering on-lookers. Men and 
women, boys and girls, with pale faces, trembling 
with emotion, came up towards the front, sometimes 
alone with head bowed, sometimes urged on by 
energetic mission-workers. Reaching the front 
benches, they dropped on their knees. The workers 
kneeled by them, putting their arms about the 
trembling, excited candidate for salvation, and urg- 
ing them on by whispering exhortation. 

After this scene was over, the "converts" were 
led into the consultation room at the rear, where 
their names were taken and they were told to align 


themselves with some of the churches of the city. 
It was not of great consequence which church — that 
was simply a matter of personal choice or conven- 

While this was going on, the song revivalist 
was teaching the people to sing the famous "Glory 
Song." Then the preacher came into the big hall 
and asked if there were any yet who wished to be 
saved. Just then a man arose in the hall and asked: 

"Mister, what shall I do to be saved?" The 
preacher looked for a moment at the man who 
stood and waited. Then the revivalist opened his 
Bible and said: "I will read the answer from the 
word of God. This man is evidently pricked in his 
heart as were those on the day of Pentecost who 
asked a similar question; and Peter stood up in the 
midst of the people and answered them. What did 
he say? 'Repent, every one of you in the name of 
Jesus Christ — repent, repent, repent!' " 

The preacher stopped there, and the man sat 
down again. Elders Donaldson and Dean looked at 
each other in blank astonishment. Why did he 
not complete the quotation and thus give the man a 
complete answer? 


"The hypocrite!" said Elder Dean. 

John Loring had been busy among the con- 
gregation, but he was sitting with the two elders 
when the man arose and asked the question. Mr. 
Loring stared at the man, and then exclaimed: 

"That's Dwight Thornton, sober and in his right 
mind. Praise the Lord." Then he went down the 
aisle to where the questioner sat, to help him on the 
way to salvation. The revivalist urged Mr. Thornton 
to come up in front, to repent, to accept Christ, and 
not wait another minute; but his pleadings were 
without avail. The man sat still during the remain- 
der of the service. At the close of the meeting he 
went out with John Loring and the two elders. 

Mr. Loring urged his friend to come home with 

"Why do you ask me to your house tonight?" 

enquired Mr. Thornton. "You have never done so 

"Well, you are sober tonight, and appear to be 
repentant — besi d es — " 


"Nora is at our house." 

The man gave a startled look at Mr. Loring. 
"No; is it true?" he asked. 


"Yes; come and see." 

Did she ask you to ask me? Does she want to 
see me?" 

"No; she did not ask, but I suppose — " 

"Well, I'll not go," said he. 

They were about to part at a corner, when Wil- 
lard was impressed to say: "Mr. Thornton, I'll walk 
along with you a short distance. I want to talk to 

He took his arm, and the two walked along 
together. The night was cold, and Willard could 
see that the man was poorly clad. Willard led him 
into a nearby cafe and ordered cocoa and buns for 

"I know Nora Loring," explained Willard. 
"Her mother and mine are cousins. I used to visit 
Nora and her mother at Bradford and I have heard 
your name mentioned in connection with Nora's. 
I don't want to appear inquisitive, Mr. Thornton, 
but I desire to help you. That is our mission — to 
help people." 

"Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I am a 
poor, weak creature, not fit for the company of 
decent men and women; but I am trying to do bet- 




ter. I am looking for help — that's why I went to the 
revival meeting tonight." 

'Did you get any help there?" asked Willard. 

'No; it is the same old story with me. I have 
tried for years to get religion. I have believed, I 
have attended church, I have listened to the ser- 
vices; but I always go away empty handed and 
empty hearted." 

"That which you have been doing may be well 
and good, my friend; but tell me what you yourself 
have done to attain to this salvation which you asked 
about in the meeting this evening?" 

"What have I done? I can do nothing for my 
salvation. All the preachers tell me that. I have 
asked the question many a time, as I asked it this 
evening, but I have always received the same reply, 
that a man can do nothing." 

Willard took his Bible from his pocket and then 
said: "I am sure you will pardon me if I show you 
something that the preacher left out in answer to 
your question. Let me read it while you finish your 


He then read Peter's complete reply to the Jews 
who asked him what they should do, as found in the 
second chapter of Acts. 




Mr. Thornton looked the passage over again, 
and said, "Well, it does certainly seem that something 
more than mere belief was necessary in those days." 

"Another thing," continued Willard. "I under- 
stand that your main trouble is with yourself — your 
greatest enemy is your own weakness." 

'True," said the man. 

'And you have been looking for help from some 
outside source, forgetting that upon you yourself 
rests the duty of taking the initiative. God has 
given the power to every man not only to will to do, 
but to do — at least to make a beginning. This begin- 
ning may be very small, and the doer may be very 
weak; but when once there is action by the being 
himself, then, and not until then, can he call on the 
Lord for assistance. That 'the Lord helps those 
who help themselves' is a true saying. You have 
been taught to believe that you are such a mean, 
weak creature that you are powerless to help your- 
self. I tell you, my friend, that every man has with- 
in him a spark from the eternal God. Man is more 
than the world has dreamed of, and there is a closer 
connection between us and our Father in heaven than 
is believed or thought by religionists of the day." 


The two men lingered for some time in the cafe 
and then they went out. Willard talked, and his 
friend listened as they walked arm in arm along the 
street. Willard would have gone with him to his 
lodgings, but he objected. 

"But I will call on you, if you will permit me," 
said the man. "I would like to talk further with you. 
There is something in what you say that gives me 
more hope than I have ever had." 

An appointment was made for the next day, and 
promptly at the set time Mr. Thornton came. Wil- 
lard noted that his shabby clothes had been brushed, 
his face was newly shaven, and he had altogether a 
more manly appearance. He was not a bad looking 
man, and had it not been for the marks that drink 
had left in his face, his thirty-five years would have 
sat lightly upon him. 

Willard received him alone. He felt as though 
he had gained this man's confidence, and he wished 
to encourage him to open his heart to him. It was 
the middle of the afternoon when he arrived, and he 
at once began to ask questions about that which they 
had talked the evening before, 

'Do you know," said Mr. Thornton, after he 



had listened attentively to a long explanation, "that 
Nora Loring has talked in very much the same strain 
to me as you have. May I talk to you about Nora?" 

"Certainly," said Willard, "be free; tell me 
what you desire." 

"You have perhaps wondered what there is 
between us. Has Nora ever told you?" 

"Not a word. She has never mentioned your 
name to me." 

"No; of course she wouldn't. 0, Mr. Dean, 
I wish I were worthy of her!" 

f I believe Nora is a good girl," replied Willard. 
'Good! Listen — let me tell you." 

The two men drew their chairs nearer the table. 
Mr. Thornton rested his arms on the table and 
leaned toward his listening friend. Then he con- 

"Years ago Nora and I were lovers. It was up 
in our native town, where there are green fields and 
no smoke and fog. The day for our marriage had 
been set, and two happier people never lived. Then 
her father's drinking got the better of him. He lost 
his business, he lost his health. His family was 
brought to poverty. What a time those poor people 


had! And think of it, right in the midst of it all, 
I one day became the worse for liquor, and Nora 
saw it. It nearly broke her heart. I have always had 
a craving for drink, but I had kept it under control 
pretty well. Nora did not say anything to me that 
day, but the next time I called on her she seemed to 
be a changed woman. The color had nearly gone out 
of her cheeks, I remember, but she looked beautifully 
grand. I was a little afraid of her. 

"Then she spoke of her father and their condi- 
tion. 'I don't think drunkards ought to marry/ she 
said, 'and I have decided that I shall never marry 
a man who drinks/ She looked straight at me as 
she spoke, and her lips quivered. 

"I resented what she said, because, of course, 
it was aimed at me. 'Does that mean that I am a 
drunkard and that you will not marry me?' I asked. 
'It means,' she replied, 'that I shall not marry you 
unless you quit drinldng, and promise me that you 
will not begin again.' 

"Then I lost my temper, fool that I was, and 
told her what a pleasure it was to me to break our 
engagement — which was a base lie. Ah, she was 
a brave girl. She did not break down and cry nor 


■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ' - ' ■ ■ ...... ,j m ..... 

cany on, but her face became paler than ever. Then 
she pleaded with me to be a man, and, I remember, 
she talked to me very much as you have done. 

"I stayed away for a month, and then her father 
died — drink killed him. I called again and tried to 
patch up our trouble; but there was only one thing 
that Nora would listen to, and that was that I should 
became a teetotaler. I wouldn't promise, and so we 
separated again. I drank harder than ever after 
that. She moved away and I lost track of her for 
a time. 

"In a year I married another girl. We moved 
here to London. I did not drink for a whole year. 
A baby girl came, and then its mother died. From 
that day to this, I have been as a piece of driftwood 
on the ocean, without hope, without ambition, with- 
out strength to overcome my craving for drink, 
without power, it seems to me, to move in the direc- 
tion of the good." 

"Where is your little baby girl?" enquired Wil- 

The man bowed his face in his hands. There 
was silence for a few moments and then a sob escaped 


n :■,■■ . as 

him. Willard did not interrupt, Presently the 
man raised his head and said: 

"You must pardon me for my weakness; but let 
me tell you further." 

"Go on/' urged Willard. 

"It has been about a year since I have heard of 
Nora — until just the other day, about a week ago. 
I had been away all day trying to get something for 
my baby. Coming home at night I found that some- 
one had been there — some good angel, my baby tried 
to tell me. The landlady described her to me, and I 
decided it was Nora. She had been in my poverty- 
stricken lodgings and had fed my baby. How she 
had found me, I cannot imagine. Once since then 
she has been there, and what do you think I found on 
my return? The floor of my dirty room scrubbed, 
my little girl with a new dress on, and some food in 
the otherwise empty cupboard." 

Willard looked steadily at the man who was 
telling him all this, and then he said: 

"And you mean to tell me, Mr. Thornton, that 
you have no hopes, no ambitions, no incentive to 
reform and become a man?" 

"All this has come to me recently, my friend, 


and since then I have tried to do better. Oh, that I 
could be a man again!" 

Willard Dean was much the younger man, but 
he had the inspiration of his calling, and he talked in 
a wise and fatherly way to this man who was in such 
sore straights. He told him of the simple gospel plan 
which is the power of God unto salvation, told him 
of the part he would have to play in this plan, if he 
desired to get its benefits. Then Elder Donaldson 
came in and they all had "tea." They told their 
guest of their missionary experiences, how they had 
left their homes at the call of the priesthood; how 
they paid their own way; how they had to be very 
simple and economic in their living; how they were 
despised by the world^generally — and all this for the 
love of their fellow-men, and the testimony of Jesus. 
And Dwight Thornton marveled at it all, and into 
his soul, struggling from its chaotic condition, there 
came the first faint impress of the power and the 
majesty of self-control and sacrifice for the good of 
others. The elders then initiated him into the 
mysteries of "Mormon' ' tea, and then they explained 
to him their views on eating and drinking. 

"You see/' explained Willard, "we cannot do 


much in the world to relieve the present want and 
suffering, because we ourselves are poor; but we can 
do that which is infinitely better. The giving of 
alms is a praiseworthy and good thing. Outward 
aid is good, but it is only temporary. That which 
enters the soul, and inspires the man to do something 
for himself, to develop his unborn strength and to 
make it a permanent, ever-growing power — that is 
of great importance and value in this world — and 
that is the restored gospel of Jesus Christ which we 
have to give to all the world.' ' 

Dwight Thornton went home that evening with 
more hope and happiness in his heart than he had 
ever before experienced. 



It was time that Elder Donaldson should draw 
his London visit to a close and return to his field 
of labor. Willard had spent a number of days with 
him visiting historic places of interest. On the last 
day of Elder Donaldson's stay in the big city, he and 
Willard were sitting on a bench in St. James' Park 
looking at the children feeding the swans in the lake. 
The feeling of spring was in the air. The sun was 
warm. The grass had a new-green color. The early 
flowers were breaking through the soil, and a few 
birds were twittering in the trees. 

"When visiting these beauty spots in the gen- 
eral ugliness of English cities," said Willard, "I have 
often wondered how grass and flowers can thrive 
amidst so much smoke and fog." 

"That they do so is a wise provision of nature," 
said his companion. 


"Look at those children!" exclaimed Willard. 
'heir bare legs are blue with cold. The knees are 




among the tenderest parts of the body — most sus- 
ceptible to the cold — and yet these children, to be 
correctly dressed, must have bare legs." 

"The mothers and the nurses are usually heavily 
clad," added Elder Donaldson — but that isn't 
what I want to talk to you about this afternoon. I 
asked you to sit down here that I might tell you a 
story — my story; if you care to hear it." 
( I shall be delighted — go on." 
'Well," began Elder Donaldson, "I have told 
none of the elders my story, but I want to tell it to 
you. I was your first companion in the field, and I 
think you took a special liking to me." 

"True, Brother — first love, you know." 

The other smiled. "Well, as I have some good 

news from home, I must tell it to somebody; and I 
know of no one that I would rather tell it to than you. 
But for you to understand and appreciate any good 
news, I must tell you something that will lead up to 

The hum of the great city was all about them, 
but as the elders talked they lived again in other 
and far-away scenes. 


"Perhaps you did not know that my father is 
a rich man/' said Elder Donaldson. 

"No; I did not know that," was the reply. 

"Well, he is. Let me tell you about it. When 
they were married, father and mother were both 
Latter-day Saints. I shall not say good Latter-day 
Saints, because father was not very energetic in the 
performance of his religious duties; but mother — 
well, she has been true all along, bless her dear heart. 
* * * Father was very successful in his business 
ventures. He was keen and shrewd. Year after 
year he became better off, and year after year he de- 
voted more of his time to money making and less to 
religious duties. Then he made so much money that 
he could not pay one tenth of it to the Lord. 
Strange, isn't it, that it is so much easier to pay 
tithing on one hundred dollars than it is on ten 

"Father was called on a mission, but he re- 
fused to go. His interests were too large, he said. 
Mother felt this refusal keenly. Then one thing 
followed another — I shall not go into details — until 
father became openly bitter against the Church. I 
was fifteen years old when he was cut off from the 


Church. I was not old enough to fully realize the 
true nature of that which was going on, but I re- 
member distinctly what the feeling was, and how my 
sister and I mingled our tears with those of our 

"I was at an age when I resented that which 
had brought such sorrow into our home, and I lis- 
tened to father and his denunciations of the Church 
and its leaders; but when I talked with mother, 
there was quite a different feeling. I noticed the 
difference. I felt better when with mother. She 
had taught us — my sister Amy and me — always to 
say our prayers; and now she urged us never to for- 
get them, which I never did. I think that was a 
great help to me. 

"Well, the years went by. Father prospered. 
He built one of the finest houses in the city. My 
sister and I went to school and had everything we 
needed. There was one good trait in father, and that 
was that he never interfered with mother's religious 
duties. She could go to meeting as often as she 
liked. We had plenty of help in the house and so 
he was not neglected by mother's absence. 

"When I became older, I quietly investigated 


the cause of father's fall, and I found that the au- 
thorities were justified, and that father was in the 
wrong. I went to Sunday School and to Mutual, and 
the gospel become to me a dear thing. My sister 
usually went with me, but she did not take the in- 
terest that I did. 

"I married when I was twenty-two. I was 
rather young, I will admit, but I married a good 
'Mormon' girl, and I can see now that it was a God- 
send to me. Father opposed my marrying so young. 
He said I ought to get a good start in life first, get 
established in business, and all that. I worked in 
father's office on a salary, and he said I would have 
to live on that salary for some time. I was perfectly 
willing to do that, and the girl was willing also. 

"We were married in the Temple, too. Father 
didn't say much, but we surmised that he was anger- 

"Well, three months afterwards I received a call 
to go on a mission. I took the letter home and 
showed it to Lucy, my wife, and, of course, we cried 
a little over it. What should I do? All that I had 
been able to save had gone into the little house 
which I had purchased and furnished. We had 


nothing but my salary, which, of course, would stop 
the day I left the office. Help from father was out of 
the question. 

"I took the letter to mother. I could see she was 
pleased. 'Answer the call by saying yes/ she said, 
'and the Lord will bless you. What does Lucy say?' 
'She also says that I should go/ I replied. 'Bless 
her dear, brave heart/ said my mother. And so it 
was decided. 

"I have never seen father so angry as when I 
told him about it. He raved and swore. Who would 
support me and my wife? he thundered. Not he! 
Not a cent would I get from him. Let the Church 
support its own! 

"Well, in due time I answered the letter, saying 
that I should be ready whenever the authorities 
wanted me. I was given three months to prepare. 
I didn't know how I was to get along, but I trusted 
that the Lord would open the way. 

"Father didn't give in an inch. He didn't give 
me a dollar over my wages when I drew my last 
check, although he could have given me a thousand 
dollars and not missed it. The ward gave me the 
regulation benefit party. The Saints knew pretty 


well the true condition of affairs, and they turned 
out loyally. The social netted me nearly a hundred 
dollars, which paid my fare over here and gave me 
a little over. I've been here now over two years, 
and I have received twenty dollars from home regu- 
larly each month. I don't know for sure how it is 
raised, but believe mother and Lucy manage it be- 
tween them. 

"My sister Amy is three years younger than I. 
She, about the time I left, took a notion that she 
wanted to go to California to visit some friends of 
father's. Father humored her and let her go. She 
was also to do some studying, of course; but, I fear 
that has been sadly neglected. Mother tells me in 
her letters that she has done nothing but call for 
money while she has been away, and father does not 
like the tone of her letters. Let me read you what 
mother says in one of her letters." 

Elder Donaldson took from his pocket a letter 
and from it read: 

" The other day I placed your last letter and 
one that I had received from Amy on your father's 
table together, and then I made it a point to be in 
the room while he read them both. I said nothing, 


but watched him over my work. There was a frown 
on his face at Amy's sharp and not too respectful 
sentences, but when he read your letter the hard 
lines softened. After reading it, he lay back in his 
chair with closed eyes. I was busy with my work, 
humming an old tune over it. Then I saw him read 
your letter over again. These may be only straws, 
my dear boy; but they are hopeful signs. He cannot 
help but see the difference between one who is sur- 
rounded with and is partaking of the world, and one 
who is devoting his time and energy to preaching the 
gospel.' " 

"Well," continued the speaker, "it seems that 
just the difference in mine and Amy's letters set 
father to thinking. I have always aimed to be cheer- 
ful in mind, and have told of what the Lord has done 
for me day by day; and never once have I mentioned 
money to him, or asked him for any. 

"And now, this is what my last letter from Lucy 
tells me — hold me or I might get up and shout: Amy 
has been home three months, and she now wants to 
come to Europe. Father has said she can take the 
trip, provided Lucy will come with her. If Lucy will 
do that he will pay all the expenses. Will Lucy 


come? Well, I think so! They sail from Boston on 
the fifteenth of next month. What do you think of 

Elder Donaldson put his arms around his fellow 
missionary and gave him a good, hard hug, uttering 
cries of glee, at which a dignified lady just passing 
became so startled that her glasses dropped from her 

"I am very, very glad for your sake," said Wil- 
lard. "You have filled a good mission, and now to 
finish it up with a tour of Europe in the company 
of wife and sister, what could be finer?" 

"Yes, it will be glorious," said the happy man in 
a quiet tone of voice. I wish you could go with us." 

'Thank you for your kind wish," said Willard. 

There's another girl coming with them, I un- 
derstand," remarked Elder Donaldson. "She is 
going to Berlin to study music — one of my wife's 
acquaintances — what is her name? I can't remem- 
ber." He looked again at his letter. "Oh, yes, 
Wells is her name, Grace Wells." 

"Grace Wells?" 

'That's the name. Do you know her?" 







"Well, I— I don't know. I used to know a girl 
by that name, but likely this is not she. Yet, she is 
a musician, and I know she used to talk of finishing 
her musical education in Berlin." 

"Well, old boy, we'll met them at the Liverpool 
Landing Stage, and then you'll find out." 
'I don't know whether I shall or not." 

'Now look here, Willard, you're going to accept 
my treat to you. I've already spoken to the presi- 
dent about it, and he says it's all right for you to take 
a little trip to Liverpool. I'll see that your fare and 
your expenses are paid. Father is rich, you know," 
he laughed. 

"I shall be pleased to meet your wife and sister, 
but I have my doubts whether or not Grace Wells 
would be pleased to see me." 

"Ah, old boy, a little romance back of it, is 


Willard laughed good-naturedly, but did not 
reply. The afternoon sun lay low in the hazy west. 
The swans were seeking their nests for the night. The 
children were going home, and so the two mission- 
aries also sauntered out of the park into Pall Mall 
and then into Trafalgar Square where they took a 
bus for home. 


Elder Donaldson was happy and talkative. 
Willard was not talkative, and he hardly knew 
whether he was happy or uneasy. Perhaps there was 
a little of both in his feelings. Was Grace Wells 
coming to England? Would he meet her? and what 
would be the result of that meeting? These, with 
many questions akin to these, went through his mind 
as he rode on top of the bus through the crowded 
London streets. 



It was hard for Willard to decide whether or not 
he should accept Elder Donaldson's invitation to 
visit Liverpool, and meet the steamer which carried 
such important visitors to England. 

The very evening after he had listened to Elder 
Donaldson's story, he had received a letter from 
home wherein he learned that the Grace Wells who 
was coming to Europe was the one he knew. This 
certainly did not help him with his own uncertainty; 
and as he reasoned with himself he could not help 
feeling "somewhat peculiar" at the prospect before 
him of meeting under such strange conditions the 
Grace Wells of his boyhood dreams. 

But he at least decided that he would not act 
foolishly in the matter. He was old enough to do 
the proper thing, even if this renewal of acquaintance 
with his young lady friend should not prove a pleas- 


ant experience. There were Elder Donaldson, his 
wife and sister to consider; besides, it might be pos- 
sible that Grace Wells had, with the addition of 
years, added that to her character which he thought 
she had lacked years ago. And so Elder Donaldson's 
invitation was accepted. 

Willard was happy to learn of his friend's 
"luck." Elder Donaldson had been in the field two 
and a half years, and he would no doubt be released, 
so that he could take his sight-seeing trip free from 
the thought that he was neglecting any duty. "I 
wish I could go with them," he thought; but instant- 
ly put it away as some great pleasure which lay far 
beyond his reach; so that he had no envious feeling 
towards his friends. 

Willard had been in the field nearly two years. 
The mission president had often tried to impress the 
elders with the truth that two years was not neces- 
sarily a mission period; and yet, somehow, many of 
the elders felt as if every month over two years was 
good measure added to their missions. Willard was 
enjoying his work very much. He realized that he 
was now more useful that he had ever been before, 
and that a month at the latter end of a mission is 


worth two at the beginning; he, therefore, had no 
desire to be released yet. 

After Elder Donaldson's departure, Willard 
went back to work in earnest. He always felt as 
though he must work doubly hard after he had spent 
a day or two of sight-seeing, although he also realiz- 
ed that time spent in helping a visiting elder was not 

Dwight Thornton was a frequent visitor to the 
elders' lodgings, and recently he had attended a 
number of meetings. He had obtained employment, 
and as far as the missionaries could see, he was try- 
ing hard to reform. Nora Loring lived with her 
brother. She was now a regular attendant at the 
"Mormon" meetings. She often brought her sister- 
in-law with her, but her brother never could be pre- 
vailed upon to attend. He was "saved" to the end, 
and that without the "works of the law," as he ex- 

Willard went to Bradford a week before the 
steamer which he was to meet was due. He spent a 
few days happily with Elder Donaldson visiting 
Saints and friends. The Sisters Fernley at Stone- 
dale were the same kind friends. Sister Fernley 


seemed to be much older; Bessie was the same lively 
talkative girl; and Elsa had become a little more re- 
served. She was, however, the same lovely girl, 
good and true and beautiful. 

Try as he would, the ''somewhat peculiar" 
feeling which Willard experienced when thinking 
about Grace Wells became very much intensified 
the nearer he drew to the Liverpool Landing Stage. 
The morning that the two elders set out from Brad- 
ford to Liverpool, they found it difficult to do much 
talking. Elder Donaldson was, of course, supremely 
happy. It would have been hard for Willard to say 
whether he was happy or not. 

At the Church office at Liverpool, they obtained 
tickets admitting them to the part of the Landing 
Stage reserved for the incoming steamers. They 
crowded through the throng of people up to the 
rope barrier, gave up their tickets to the big police- 
man on guard, and were admitted to the cleared 
space. The steamer was out in the river, and by the 
aid of a tug was slowly making its way up to the 
Stage, As it drew nearer, the passengers could be 
seen on the decks, eagerly looking towards the land. 
Elder Donaldson scanned the crowd closely, and 




— • 




once or twice thought he caught a glimpse of his 

Slowly the huge vessel came alongside the 
Stage. Ropes were thrown from the ship to the men 
in the small boats that lay a few rods out ready to 
receive them. Having secured the ropes, the men 
rowed back to the pier with the heavy cables in tow, 
a loop of which they threw over the stanchion. The 
windlass on board the steamer wound the rope 
around its iron drum, and in this way the vessel was 
drawn closely up and made fast. 

The people on board pressed against the railing. 

They stood dressed in their "land clothes/' with bags 

and trunks piled around them on the deck. The 

big platform on the Stage was properly adjusted, the 

gang plank was pushed out to the ship and made 

fast, and then the steam-ship company's officers 

rushed across on board. An elder from the Liverpool 

office went with these officers to give proper instruc- 
tions to the company of missionaries that were on 

Elder Donaldson soon found his wife and sister, 
and greeted them from the pier. 

"Do you hear the American language?" asked 


"Yes; I would not believe that we Americans 
speak so through our noses, had I not heard it." 

First came the saloon passengers down the 
passage way and into the custom house, then the 
second class, and lastly the third. The "Mormons" 
were among the second class. Willard looked closely 
among them for Grace Wells, but he could not see 
her until they came down the gang-plank. Then he 
noticed a third lady, well wrapped up, and sup- 
ported by one of the missionaries. She came down 
the steps slowly, and when she reached the plat- 
form Grace Wells stood before him. Yes, it was the 
same Grace. She had changed very little, it seemed 
to Willard. She held out her hand to him and ap- 
peared pleased to see him. Her face was pale, as if 
she were not well, but she smiled as she told them 
she would be all right now that she had reached land 

"Grace has been ill — in fact is ill now," explain- 
ed Sister Donaldson. "She must get to some place 
where she can rest before she can go on to Berlin." 

"I know such a place," replied Willard — "Sis- 
ter Fernley's." 

"Just the place," said Elder Donaldson. 


After the inspection of the baggage, which is a 
very simple affair at Liverpool, Willard called a 
cab to take them to the station. They decided it 
would be better for Grace to get out to Stonedale 
at once, and not take part in the crowd and rush in- 
cident to the arrival of the missionaries at the Church 
office. So farewells were said. It is wonderful 
how strong the attachments become between fellow 
travelers on a nine days' ocean voyage; and this is 
especially true between Latter-day Saints. The 
three ladies were called "the girls/' and the mis- 
sionaries, "the boys." They were all from the West, 
and had western ways and manners. Many of the 
"boys" wore their slouch hats pulled well down over 
their ears, and it could not be successfully contra- 
dicted that some of the girls chewed gum and talked 
with a pronounced nasal twang. However, who 
would be so bold as to find fault with the unpolished 
edges of diamonds in the rough? 

The five had a compartment to themselves in 
the train to Bradford, and in that cozy condition 
the newness of acquaintanceship soon wore off. 
Elder Donaldson, of course, was all beams and smiles, 
as was also his wife. Amy was not so demonstrative, 


taking it all as a matter of course. This was not her 
first trip away from home. She had ''traveled" 
before. She could not understand why she could 
not check her trunks and cases, and her brother had 
to assure her that there would be no trouble in get- 
ting them at the other end. 

All that would be necessary would be to engage 
a porter to get them from the ' 'luggage van" and put 
them on the cab. 

"Will they give him our baggage without any 
checks?" she asked. 

"Oh, we just go along and pick out what is 
ours," was the reply. 

"Well, but suppose someone else should get 
there first and claim our baggage. There is no 
reason why a thief shouldn't take the whole lot. I 
don't understand." 

"Nor I, my dear; but that's the way they do it 
in England, and I haven't yet heard of any baggage 
lost in that way." 

Grace was made comfortable with pillows in a 
corner of the compartment. Willard did for her 
what he could well do without appearing over-solici- 
tous. That he had determined not to be. He had 


resolved to hold himself in proper check, no matter 
how she might affect him. She leaned back on her 
pillows and closed her eyes, and Willard could see 
that she was quite ill. She appeared to him about 
the same girl whom he had known. She had not 
changed much. She was older, of course, and her 
beauty was more of the matured kind ; but, strange- 
ly enough, it was not this that appealed to Willard. 
Rather, it was the girl of former days, that could yet 
be seen in the form and face and voice, that touched 
his tender heart that day. 

It was yet early in the afternoon when they 
reached Bradford, and so it was decided to go direct- 
ly out toStonedale. There were a goodly number of 
Saints in the city that would be pleased to entertain 
the visitors for a few days, but Grace must be looked 
after first. They, therefore, all went with her in the 
carriage which Elder Donaldson had engaged. 

"But what will they think of us, coming upon 
them like this?" said Sister Donaldson. 

"They will be delighted/' her husband assured 

Amy couldn't "see it," and even Grace murmur- 
ed a faint expostulation. 


"You girls cannot understand it," I know, said 
Elder Donaldson; "but I tell you that Sister Fernley 
will consider it a great pleasure. We are not bound 
by strict society rules in the mission field, you must 
understand. If so, what would we poor elders do 
who sometimes travel without purse or scrip? In 
your visiting, do you always send your card ahead 
of you, eh, Willard? ,, 

It was as Elder Donaldson had said. Sister 
Fernley received them most graciously, and would 
have gladly housed all the girls; but Sister Donald- 
son and Amy would not listen to that. Grace, how- 
ever, was "mothered" in a sweet way; and the sick 
girl's heart went out to the gentle, pleasant-faced 
woman. They had not long to wait before Elsa 
came home from her school, and she, too, added 
her welcome to that of her mother's. Bessie came in 

later — came into the house — for her — in a quiet way. 
There was a simple "tea" quietly arranged for all, 
and even Grace was tempted to eat one of the dainty 
slices of buttered bread. 

Elder Donaldson went back to Bradford with 
his wife and sister, promising to call the next day. 

"You will not be lonesome, will you, dear?" 
asked Sister Donaldson of Grace before she left. 


"I feel at home already," she replied. "I think 
a few days of rest will be all I need, and then I shall 
be able to go on my way." 

"I hope so, dear — these people are very good." 

Willard did not go back to Bradford. He was 
to remain at Stonedale that night, so he was in no 
hurry to leave. The spring day closed with a cool 
wind, and a fire was made in the grate. Grace 
rested easily in the cheerful warmth, and while the 
sisters of the household were busy with home duties, 
Willard and Grace talked of affairs at home. He 
remained until he saw that she was quite tired, and 
then he bade them all good-night and left. 

The next day Grace felt better, though she was 
prevailed upon to keep to her bed. 

When Elders Dean and Donaldson called in the 
afternoon they administered to her, and she thanked 
them sweetly for the blessing which she said she had 
received. On the following day the sick girl was 
feeling so well that she was down stairs again. Elder 
Donaldson had received his release, and as Amy 
especially was anxious to get to Paris on a certain 
date, they decided to set out immediately. Willard 
was to remain in Bradford and Stonedale a few days. 


"We'll see you in Berlin," they said to Grace 
as they left. 

But Grace Wells' musical education was not to 
be completed in Berlin. On the third day of her 
stay at Stonedale, fever set in. Her friends nursed 
her as carefully as they knew how, and used in con- 
nection with their faith and prayers all the simple 
remedies which they knew; but the fever and the 
weakness increased, and then Willard brought a 
doctor, who was a good friend to the elders, to see 
her. He pronounced it a case of typhoid fever. 

Good, careful nursing, said he, was what was 
needed; and the good Saints of Stonedale under the 
supervision of Sister Fernley provided it. Her travel- 
ing companions had gone, and Willard felt that she 
had no nearer friend than he. He ought to remain 
with her. They were neighbors at home, and why 
should he not be her neighbor now, to the full extent 
of Christ's interpretation of that term? He wrote 
to the president, explaining the situation and the 
reply was that he should stay. 

The dreaded fever ran its course to the critical 
period. Sister Fernley was not strong, and therefore 
could not do much; Bessie's work at the mills pre- 



vented her from helping a great deal; and so Elsa 
soon became the chief nurse. She spent all her spare 
time at the sick girl's side. She watched far into the 
night, and none seemed able to soothe the fever- 
racked brain as well as she. Willard did what he 
could, and he acknowledged that that was not much. 
He tried to do some missionary work, but he found 
that his mind was rather on the pale-faced girl who 
lay fever-tossed at Stonedale. All his faith and all 
his prayers went out for her. And yet he said to him- 
self, as he walked alone in the lanes across the 
near-by fields, why should it be so? Was he losing 
control of himself again as he had done once before, 
years ago? There was not a particle of reason for 
his thinking of Grace Wells other than as a friend. 
He would do his simple duty, and let that suffice. 

But if he thought to deceive himself, he could 
not deceive others. Elsa Fernley read what was in 
his inner heart as easily as if it had been printed in 
an open book. He would come and sit by the hour in 
the Fernley home, talking when he could to the 
mother or to the girls — and the burden of his talk 
was the sick girl up stairs. Sister Fernley was worn 
out, and yet Willard did not notice it. Elsa's usual- 



ly rosy cheeks took on the nature of her patient's, 
but the change was lost on Willard. His one con- 
cern was Grace Wells, plainly evident to all but 

The fever ran its course, and the patient took 
the turn for the better. The recovery was slow. The 
weeks went by. The English summer came, with 
its beauty of green and flowers. When Grace was 
able to sit up, she loved to look out of the window 
over the fields and lanes; and then Willard Dean 
came and sat by her and talked to her. If Elsa was 
in the room she would usually slip out quietly and 
leave them alone; and yet the stupid Willard did not 
even notice this. 



When Grace Wells was strong enough to be 
out, Willard Dean went back to London and to work. 
Grace would remain yet a few days with her friends, 
and then she promised Willard to call on him on her 
way to Berlin. 

London seemed to awaken Willard as from a 
dream. The streets with their ever-flowing human 
tide were real enough — that which he had just left 
must have been a dream of mingled pleasure and 

But now to work again. Time was precious. 
He had many friends and investigators on whom he 
must call. Willard shook his mental self vigorously, 
to get rid of the last vestige of drowsiness. 

As soon as possible he called on his friends, the 
Lorings. They were all glad to see him and they 
plied him with many questions. He had remained 


away so long that they feared he had been released 
and had returned home. 

"Oh, no," replied Willard, good naturedly. 
"My work is not complete until I see some of you 
good people members of the Church." 

"Well," replied Mrs. Loring, "your release is 
then due at any time, for there were a number bap- 
tized last Sunday, and Nora was among them." 

"What?" asked Willard, as he held out a hand 
to Nora, "Is that true?" 

"It is true," she replied. "I could not wait 
longer, not even until you came back." 

"I am very, very glad," he said, as he looked 
into the strong face of the young woman, now beam- 
ing and made more beautiful with the light of truth. 

"Who else that I know was baptized? I like to 
hear good news." 

"Dwight Thornton," said Mrs. Loring; "and 
I myself would have liked nothing better." 

Willard understood that Mr. Loring would have 
objected to his wife's being baptized, and it is not 
permitted to baptize a woman without the consent 
of her husband. 


They talked pleasantly over the tea table, and 
Willard told them why he was detained in Stone- 

Elder Donaldson's party was well on its way on 
the continent, he explained, and Grace Wells was 
to be in Berlin within ten days. He expected her 
to stop off in London for a few days' visit. 

"She is not strong yet," Willard said, "and so 
she must be careful. I should like to get her lodg- 
ings in some quiet neighborhood like this. Have you 
rooms, Mrs. Loring." He looked around on the im- 
maculateness of the little home, and thought how 
Grace would enjoy staying in it. 

"We shall be delighted to have her -tay, you 
know, Elder Dean," replied Mrs. Loring. "Let her 
come right here. She shall be welcome, if she can 
put up with our small rooms and simple fare." 

It was raining when Grace came to London. 
The fifty tons of soot, which, it is stated, hangs sus- 
pended in the air above the city is certainly well 
mixed with the descending rain; and this mixture, no 
doubt, accounts for the general black color with 
which everything in London is painted. Willard 
met Grace at the station, and placed her in a closed 


carriage in which they drove to Mrs. Loring's. A 
cozy fire was in the parlor grate, but Willard and 
Grace preferred the dining room in which to make 
themselves at home. 

"I am going to take you to the cleanest house in 
London/' Willard had told Grace in the carriage; 
"but be careful of the bric-a-brac in the parlor." 

Although it was yet summer, the rain was cold. 
Mrs. Loring therefore had a fire in the grate of the 
cozy bedroom into which Grace was ushered. When 
left to herself the girl examined the room. The 
painted floor shone as if it had been finished but yes- 
terday. The walls were without a stain. The win- 
dow and its curtains contained not a speck of dust. 
But the bed! Such a mass of snow-white linen she 
had never seen on a bed before. She was fearful 
that her touch would stain that whiteness; and yet 
she longed to bury herself in the sweet cleanness, 
and rest content. 

Willard went into the kitchen where Nora and 
Mrs. Loring were busy. 

"Mrs. Loring," he said, "I met Dwight Thorn- 
ton this morning, and I invited him to our little tea 
party this afternoon." 


Nora started and her face flushed, but Willard 
appeared not to notice it. 

"You see," he continued, good naturedly, "I 
believe it's all right sometimes 'to skin the cat and 
ask permission afterwards/ " 

"We shall be pleased to see him," replied Mrs. 

Dwight Thornton came about tea time, clean, 
quiet — a changed man. He had with him his little 
girl, also clean and tidy. Nora greeted him in a care- 
ful, yet friendly manner, and the child gladly went to 
her outstretched arms. Willard could see that this 
was not their only recent meeting. 

Mr. Loring came home, and they all sat down 
to the table. Afterwards they went into the parlor, 
and Grace played a number of selections on the 
piano. Then there was general conversation, which 
in time led to gospel subjects. Mr. Loring listened 
but made no comment. 

"What you told me about self-effort," said 
Dwight Thornton to Willard, "set me to thinking; 
and I could plainly see that if I was to get any help 
from any outside source, I must first exert what 
little initial force I possessed. I read carefully the 


thirty-second chapter of Alma in the Book of Mor- 
mon, as you suggested to me, and I received much 
help from it. The unbelievers were told to awake 
and arouse their faculties, and put the word of God 
to the test; and I did this." 

" 'Mormonism,' " said Willard, "or in other 
words, the gospel of Jesus Christ, comprehends all 
truths, and among the most sublime of these is that 
of the importance of the individual. The religions 
of the East teach that in time the individual will be 
annihilated, and that personality will be lost or swal- 
lowed up in some uniform state of existence; and 
modern Christianity is fast drifting into a similar 
condition of belief. It is pretty hard to describe this 
unreal, and to me, unthinkable condition. On the 
other hand, my religion teaches me that the ego or 
intelligence of man is one of the original units of the 
universe. The fact that there are no two individuals 
alike goes far to prove this statement; and I think 
that one of the chief purposes of life is not to destroy 
this individuality, but to develop it. As we progress 
in the scale of intelligence I shall be more myself 
and you will be more yourself. This may sound 
selfish; but in truth it is not." 


"I have some faults that are very personal to 
me/' said Mrs. Loring, "What about them?" 

"Our faults are no part of our original selves. 
They are accretions which are gotten rid of as we per- 
fect ourselves. Some day I hope we shall be fault- 
less, but not attributeless; we shall be one with Christ 
as He is one with the Father, but we shall have in- 
dividual form, feature, and characteristics to dis- 
tinguish us from each other. The countless leaves 
of a tree may all be perfect, yet no two be exactly 

Mr. Loring lighted his pipe. As a rule, smokers 
have lost the delicate sense of courtesy. Tobacco 
smoke is most obnoxious to some persons, and yet 
smokers who would not think of annoying people in 
other ways, make no scruples of puffing smoke into 
their faces. Mr. Loring was no exception to this 
rule; clouds of smoke arose from his pipe up to the 

t'This subject is further illustrated in another 
ay," continued Willard, addressing himself to Mr. 
Loring. "For instance, there is no woman in all 'he 
world just like your wife. Her personality, some- 
thing about her — call it what you will, differentiates 


her from all others. That is what drew you to her — 
that subtle, essential element which makes her Susan 
Loring, and no one else. You want that preserved, 
otherwise the term 'my wife' would lose its most 
precious element; you want that in this life, you 
want it always." 

Mr. Loring gave a little grunt which could not 
be distinguished from yes or no, but which could 
have been taken for either. The wife could see that 
either Grace Wells or the smoker would have to 
leave the room, and so she called her husband into 
the kitchen. He came back to the parlor again with- 
out his pipe; and Willard wondered whether Mr. 
Loring fully appreciated the argument on woman's 
personality — especially his wife's. 

During this little discussion Grace Wells sat 
by the grate in an easy chair, between a frail flower 
vase on one side, and an equally fragile piece of 
statuary on the other. She dared not move to the 
right or to the left, but she looked across to where 
Willard Dean, the missionary, sat. As she listened 
to his talk, she wondered at the change that had come 
to him. He had left home a shy, reticent boy, shamb- 
ling in gait, awkward in manners, and blundering in 


speech. Now she found a man, tall, straight, walking 
with head erect and firm step. He looked with a 
steady eye into the face of the person to whom he 
was speaking, and he spoke as if he was sure of what 
he was saying. His speech and actions were those of 
a man who had come into the possession of his own. 
Grace thought as she looked at him, that she would 
not now dare to treat him as she once had done, even 
if she should have the opportunity or the wish. 

When the party broke up that evening, Willard 
and Dwight Thornton walked homeward together. 
The little girl was not with her father, therefore 
Willard asked about her. 

"She was asleep and Nora asked me to let her 
stay. I couldn't refuse. Nora is very kind." 

"Are you getting acquainted again?" asked 

"We meet at services only," was the reply. 
"When I ask Nora Loring to marry me — which I 
intend to do again some day — she shall have no oc- 
casion to refuse me, at least on account of the old 

"I glory in your determination, brother. God 
bless and prosper you in it." 


Willard did not neglect his work because Grace 
was in London. He asked the conference president 
to spend a little time with her and show her some of 
the sights. In the week that Grace was at Loring's, 
Willard called twice. The afternoon of the day she 
was to leave for Berlin, he visited the British Museum 
with her. 

Willard took her across London bridge. It was 
a little out of the way, but he had an object in it. 
When they paused midway on the bridge he said to 

"Do you remember when we used to play 'Lon- 
don bridge is falling down?' " 

"Yes; I remember/' 

"Do you recall the time when you became angry 
at me because our side lost?" 

Grace had no recollection of such an event. 

"Well, I remember it." 

"You have been forgiven long ago, Willard," 
she said. Then after a pause she continued: "Lon- 
don bridge isn't going to fall yet awhile. It seems 
solid enough to stand for ages." 

"But I wouldn't object to having the play bridge 
fall again," said Willard. He looked into her face 


and saw that she understood. And that was the 
nearest Willard came to "love making," according to 
his own judgment. 

On their return that evening Grace was handed 
a letter from Stonedale. It was from Bessie Fernley 
and stated that Elsa was seriouslv ill. 

"Poor girl," said Grace, "she wasn't well when 
I left. See, it says 'seriously ill.' She wore herself 
out waiting on me." Grace mused for a moment as 
she slowly folded the letter. 

"I'm going back to see her," she said. 

"But you were going to Berlin in the morning." 

"Berlin can wait. I believe I owe my life to 
Elsa's care, and I'm going back to see her and help 

"You are not strong — you must be careful — 

"I'm going to Stonedale in the morning. Will 
you help me to the station?" 

The next morning Willard saw her safely away. 
He expected a letter the day after, but none came. 
On the third day he received a telegram which read : 

'Elsa is dying. Come immediately." 




Willard Dean sped northward on one of Eng- 
land's fastest express trains. It was morning when 
he arrived at Bradford, and he immediately went to 
the elders' quarters. None of them was at home, so 
he took the tramcar out to Stonedale. 

Bessie met him at the door, and let him in. She 
was haggard and pale and quiet. 

"Yes; she is yet alive," she said in reply to Wil- 
lard's question. "Mamma is lying down trying to 
rest, but I shall call Sister Grace.'" 

In a few minutes Grace came. She also looked 
worn and tired. She took Willard's proffered hand 
(it becomes second nature for a missionary to 
shake hands) and then led him quietly up the stairs. 
They paused at the sick girl's room and Grace softly 
opened the door and peeped in. She closed it again, 


and took Willard to a seat by an open window in the 

"She appears to be resting quietly,' ' said Grace, 
"and we will not disturb her just now." 

She seated herself on a low stool and leaned her 
arms on the sill of the open window. The breeze 
played with her somewhat dishevelled locks. Wil- 
lard looked at her, and then out beyond through the 
window into the fields and meadows. A hill arose 
not far away, and from it jutted a stony precipice 
from which the village had derived its name. The 
morning was quiet. The noises of the busy city 
reached Stonedale in the form of a subdued hum. 
Willard spoke in a low voice. 

"Is it typhoid?" he asked. 

"No; some sort of nervous trouble," said Grace. 
"The doctor seems in doubt what to call it." 

"Are the elders here?" 

"Yes, they are now over to Brother Moore's. 
They are doing all they can." 

Willard drew his chair closer to the window. 
The breeze felt good. Grace looked at him steadily 
in a way she had never done before. 

"Willard Dean, what have you said and done to 
Elsa Fernley?" she asked. 


It was then that he looked at her in a way which 
he also had never done before as he replied : 

"What do you mean? I do not understand 

"I think you do, Willard. You and I are to a 
great extent reponsible for this girl's condition." 

Willard was not so dull that he failed to see the 
purport of Grace's talk. A wave of pain swept 
through his heart, as he comprehended what it 
meant. With all his care, was his mission to end thus 
in a tragedy? "0 God!" he prayed in his heart, 
"what shall I do? Help me to think, help me to act 
for the best!" 

Grace saw the troubled face, but could not see 
the real cause; and so she misjudged. 

"Grace," said he, "I am innocent of any wrong- 
doing towards Elsa. I tell you in all sincerity that 
I have not deceived the girl in word or act." 

"Perhaps you have not deceived her. Perhaps 
you have meant all you have expressed to her." 

"What have I expressed to her — tell me? You 
seem to know." 

I only know that this girl loves you, Willard; 

. . ■ 


yes, loves you to distraction, and I fear it will be her 

There was a movement in the sick room, and 
Grace tip-toed to the door, looked in for a moment, 
and then came back. By that time Willard had con- 
trol of himself. Grace stood looking out of the win- 
dow. Willard arose and stood by her. 

"Grace," he said with tender firmness, "you 
seem not to believe me, and so I shall not try to plead 
for myself; but I tell you that if Elsa Fernley loves 
me, it is none of my doing. If I am the cause of that 
love, I am the innocent cause. I have never tried to 
win the love of any girl since — since — well a long time 
ago. And then it was a failure, a complete failure, 

"Don't be so sure of that," she said, without 
looking away from the spire of the church which 
showed above the trees. "But Willard, I am not 
doubting your words now. Perhaps I spoke un- 
thinkingly. I judged from what poor, dear Elsa said 
in her fevered talk. I think she wants to see you, 
Willard, and that's why I sent for you." She sat 
down on the low seat again, and Willard leaned on 
the window sill. 



"The doctor says there is very little hope," she 
continued, "and so I want you to do what you can 
— I want you to go to her, talk to her, and bless her 
— and tell her that you love her!" 

Grace put her hands to her face and cried softly. 
'I can't do that, Grace, — not all of that." 


'Because I do not love her in the way you mean. 
I cannot deceive her in that manner." 

"But, Willard, she is dying, and you ought to 
do anything in your power — " 

There was a sob in his voice, too, as he replied, 
"I cannot let her take into the next world something 
from me which would deceive her — something which 
is not true. I do love Elsa, for she is a dear, sweet 
girl; but it is as I love all such as she, and in no 
other way. 

"Yes," said Grace, "I, too, love her. I have 
never met such a girl before. She has taught me 
many a lesson, Willard. The long days and nights 
she sat by my bedside and comforted me, I shall 
never forget. She has shown me what a selfish life 
I have been leading back at home. It has been self, 
self, always. Many a time she made me ashamed of 


my ignorance. She thought that I, coming from 
Zion, would know ever so much more than she about 
the principles of the gospel; but I was as ignorant as 
a child compared with her. Why, she seems to know 
as much as the wisest among us. And what sacri- 
fices she has made! And now to think that she is 

Tears came again, and Willard, standing above 
her, gently placed his hand on her head in silent 
blessing. All around him was suffering, and his 
big, tender heart was touched. 

Sister Fernley came up the stairs. She greeted 
Willard and then passed into the sick chamber. 
Grace followed her in, then came back to the door and 
beckoned to Willard. He went softly into the room. 
Elsa lay with her wide open eyes fastened on him 
as he entered. He went up to the bed and sat down 
near her. She held out her pale, weak hand to him 
and smiled. Willard took the hand and held it close- 
ly in his. Everything in the room was very still. 
Presently Grace, and then Sister Fernley, slipped 
out of the room. Elsa closed her eyes. 

Why had they gone? thought Willard. Per- 
haps the girl was dying. He had never seen any one 


die, and Elsa surely looked as if every weak breath 
would be the last. He sat and looked at the pale, 
shrunken face, her rosy cheeks all gone, but beauti- 
ful still. He thought of what Grace had said, and 
examined himself, to find if possible, wherein he was 
to blame. He had left Bradford and Stonedale to 
avert danger but perhaps it had not been soon 
enough. What could he now do? What could he 
do for this dying girl? 

Down-stairs noises came to him faintly. Break- 
fast was no doubt being prepared. The living at 
least must eat, though he himself had no desire for 
food. Elsa still lay with eyes shut. Her fingers 
closed on Willard's hand in a gentle grip, and he let 
it lie. Then he placed his other hand on her brow 
and gently stroked back the mass of beautiful hair. 

"Elsa," he whispered to her, "Elsa, the Lord 
will bless you and give you strength. You must get 
well. Elsa, do you hear?" 

She smiled faintly, but did not open her eyes or 
try to speak. 

"You must not give up," he continued, "Your 
work is not yet finished, dear sister." 

Just a fainter smile this time. Was she dying? 


Why did not some one come? He would have 
called, but dared not. The grip on his hand seemed 
stronger when he made an effort to draw it away. 
He rested his hand on her brow and then on the 
sunken cheeks. He leaned over to catch the faint 
breath, and then without any thought of improp- 
riety, he gently pressed his lips to her forehead and 
to her cheek, as he would to those of a child. Elsa 
opened her eyes wide and looked into his face. The 
grip on his hand tightened perceptibly. Then she 
closed her eyes again, and lay for some time as if 

The door opened and Grace came in, followed 
by the doctor and two elders. The doctor looked at 
Willard, closely, then went to the patient, felt her 
pulse, and noted the moisture on the face. 

"She is better," he said. 

Out in the hall he turned to Willard and with 
his hand on the young man's shoulder said, "You 
have helped me save her life." 

"I — how?" stammered he. 

"Never mind how, but you have, young man." 

The first emotion of joy turned to fear in Wil- 
lard's heart, but Grace who was standing near said: 



"Willard, I am so glad; you have helped, I know. 
Come now and have some breakfast/' 

Elsa improved rapidly; and before Willard left 
she was out of danger. He spent most of his time in 
Bradford, calling at the Fernley home only once a 
day to enquire about the sick girl's progress. Grace 
remained with her, waited on her, and supplied her 
with dainties to tempt her appetite. Under Sister 
Fernley's directions the visitor was getting some 
valuable lessons in housekeeping, she explained to 

The day Willard was to leave for London, Grace 
called on him at Bradford. He welcomed her with 
poorly disguised pleasure, and suggested to her that 
they spend a few hours in sightseeing around the 

"There are some pretty spots in this smoke- 
begrimed city also," he explained. 

Grace readily accepted his offer as she needed 
a little outing. 

As the day was fair and warm they first took a 
ride on top of the tram car out to Idle, a suburb of 
the city. The ride took them over hills and down 
dales, along shady lanes and through green fields. 


Smoking chimneys stuck up into the sky everywhere. 

"Bradford, you must know/' explained Willard, 
"is engaged largely in the manufacturing of woolen 
goods. Some of the finest in the world are made 
here. — Out here in Idle there was in early days a 
large branch of the Church. Here, in 1842, died 
and was buried the first missionary who laid down 
his life in a foreign field. His name was Lorenzo 
D. Barnes, and the Prophet Joseph Smith preached 
a sermon to his memory." 

Then they visited the Cartwright Memorial 
Hall and beautiful Chellow Dean. The middle of the 
afternoon found them resting on a seat in Peel park. 

They talked until train time, and then Grace 
went to the station with him. She promised to write 
and tell him how Elsa progressed, and also when she 
herself would be coming to London on her way to 

In the second letter which Willard received 
from her, this paragraph appeared: 

"And now, I have decided not to go to Berlin; 
at least, not at this time. This may appear like back- 
ing out, but I can't help it. I am not well yet, and I 
do not feel able to go to a strange city and begin 


my work which will not be easy. I am going back 
home, and Elsa Fernley is going with me. We are 
to set out just as soon as she is strong enough. I 
have written to my friends on the Continent, and 
I think they will be ready to go home about the time 
we are. I shall drop you a card saying goodby when 
we are ready to leave. Love to the Lorings. When 
do you expect to be released? When you find out 
let me know. I shall be waiting over home.' 




When Elder Willard Dean heard from his con- 
ference president that his release was about to arrive, 
he went to him and said, "I want to stay three 
months longer. I feel as if I have lost about that 
much time by my friends breaking in upon my work. 
So, if it's all right, I want to stay and make up that 

"If that is your wish, I see no objection," re- 
plied the president. "We are glad to have you, of 
course; but I do not consider the time which you have 
devoted to helping your friends as wasted." 

And so Willard went to his work again with 
added strength and power. Never had he done so 
much good and reached so many people with the 
gospel. Elder Donaldson, with wife and sister, came 


back to London, tired with sight-seeing and eager to 
be homeward bound. They remained but a few days 
and were off. Grace Wells and Elsa Fernley sailed 
with them from Liverpool. They all sent him fare- 
well greetings by cards mailed from the boat, and 
his were delivered to them at Queenstown. 

The summer passed, and the rains and fogs 
came back; but Willard paid no heed to the weather. 
There was "sunshine in his sour' continually, so what 
did he care for fog or rain. Whether he was preach- 
ing to the ever-shifting crowds on the streets, or de- 
livering his tracts from door to door, or conversing 
on gospel principles to Saints or strangers or investi- 
gators, he did it in a good-natured, happy way. 
Thus busy with his work, the time passed rapidly. 
The winter came, but Willard received no release; 
nor did he wish one now until spring. 

He learned in letters from home that Elsa Fern- 
ley was well and happy, and that she had been of- 
fered a school in his own county. She was staying 
with Grace, and they were fast friends. Grace fre- 
quently visited Brother and Sister Dean, and Willard 
knew by his mother's letters that Grace was inter- 
ested in English missionaries. The girl sent him a 


letter once a month, with now and then a picture 

Among Willard's best London friends were the 
Lorings and D wight Thornton. When he was tired 
and a bit lonesome or discouraged, he dropped in to 
the "cleanest house in London," sat easy and con- 
tented by the fire, or played with the children. Mr. 
Loring always welcomed him, and often spoke of 
the young man's power over Dwight Thornton, when 
Mr. Loring and his church had failed to make an 
impression on him. But whenever this topic came 
up, Willard simply said, "You know, Mr. Loring, 
the gospel is the power of God unto salvation. 
That's all the secret. It is none of my doings. I 
am but the instrument — the gospel is what has done 
it." And in reply Mr. Loring smoked his pipe in 

One evening Willard found Dwight Thornton 
and Nora Loring sitting by the fire in the small par- 
lor. Little Nellie was playing on the floor, chatter- 
ing first to one and then to the other. Willard would 
have retreated, but they called him back. 

"Come in, Elder Dean," said Brother Thornton, 
"we want to speak to you. We want your advice." 


Willard thought, "What now?" He was often 
called in to give counsel and to settle difficulties of 
all kinds, because a "Mormon" elder, though per- 
haps only a boy, is expected to be wise enough to 
counsel gray-haired men and women; but he felt to 
shrink from sitting in judgment in the matter be- 
tween these two people. 

"Nora and I have decided to emigrate to Zion," 
said Brother Thornton. "I want her to marry me 
before we go, but she says we should wait until we 
get to Utah. What do you say?" 

Willard looked at Nora, whose face shone in the 
firelight, and then at the man who was also look- 
ing with a pleased smile at the young woman. 

"I do not say," replied Willard. "I can't advise 
you on the matter, at least, not now. But I'll think 
it over." 

Then he sat down and talked with them. 
Brother Thornton had, he himself thought, complete- 
ly overcome his craving for drink. "If I can pass 
daily the gin shops of this city without going in, it 
will be easy for me in Zion where there isn't so much 


"Do not be too sure," replied Willard. "There 
are plenty of temptations in Utah, and those who 
want drink can get it. The only safety lies in being 
proof against temptation from within as well as 
from without." 

"Yes," replied the other, "I am trying to bear in 
mind what you have told me about developing our 
true individuality, and I find it is a great help to me." 

Little Nellie fell asleep on the floor, and Nora 
picked her up. She placed the child on the sofa and 
carefully covered her with a shawl. Mrs. Loring 
came in and supper was announced. 

When Willard left that evening, Dwight Thorn- 
ton followed him to the door and said, "You'll be 
going home in the spring, shall you not?" 

"I suppose so; but I don't know just when." 

"Well, when you go, we shall go with you, 
whether we are married or not." 
"Good for you," said Willard. 

rOn one of the last days in the month of March, 
Willard Dean received two important letters. One 
of them came in the well-known "long-sleeved 

envelope," as the elders called the letter which con- 
tained their release. He might make his arrange- 
ments to sail on the first boat in May, it stated. 


Willard looked at the expression ' 'honorably re- 
leased," and gratitude swelled up in his heart. The 
president had written, besides the usual release form, 
a short personal letter, commending him for his 
faithful labors, and bidding God's blessing on his 
homeward journey. It seemed to him that here was 
reward enough for his many months of labor, of trial, 
and of sacrifice. The peace of God was in his heart, 
and filled his soul with joy inexpressible. 

The second letter was from home. It was un- 
commonly heavy, needing double postage on it. The 
first folded sheets from the envelope were from Grace, 
and among other things she wrote: 

"Elsa Fernley is to be married next month. If 
you hurry home, you may be in time for the wedding. 

The happy man is your old-time friend, Jack 
Howard. Jack picked her up as soon as she arrived 
in town. He has made love fast and furious, and she 
has capitulated. The mountain air has brought back 
to Elsa's cheeks her English roses, and she is a lovely 
girl. I nearly envy Jack, but you know he is a good 
boy, and altogether worthy of such a jewel as Elsa. 
She wanted to teach school and earn money to send 
for her mother and sister, but Jack wouldn't hear of 


it. He would take care of that, said he. He is able 
to, as his sheep have been doing well. And so next 
month sees the wedding. They are going to live 
in Brother Karlson's new house until they can build 
one of their own. Oh, by the way, Katie Smith was 
just over, and what do you think she said? Listen: 
'I think it's a shame!' she exclaimed, 'there ought to 
be an import duty on English girls. Here are sixteen 
of us members of the U. T. C — U. T. C, you must 
know, stands for our club motto, Usefulness, Truth- 
fulness, Cheerfulness; although some spiteful people 
say that it means the Unclaimed Treasure Club — 
'and not one of us with a ghost of a prospect/ said 
Katie; 'while this English girl comes, and in three 
months captures the finest boy in town! Isn't it 

The second enclosure was from Elsa Fernley, 
and she wrote: 

"Dear Elder Dean: — Grace has kindly allowed 
me to read her letter to you, and I may say, that with 
the exception of some of the personal expressions 
about me, I have no fault to find with it. It is true, 
as Grace says, that I am to be married next month. 
I can hardly realize it. The Lord has been exceed- 


ingly good to me. When I look back on the exper- 
iences of the past year, and what has now come to 
me, I appear to be in dreamland. I can't understand 
what Jack sees in me. He says it's the English dia- 
lect, but that's a fib; because, as you know, I do not 
speak the Yorkshire. 

"Well, now, I wish to say something else to 
you — and I am going to let Grace read this letter — 
let me say, that I know where your heart is — and 
it is in safe keeping, too. I want you to forgive and 
forget, as far as I am concerned. If I have annoyed 
you by word or act of mine, I ask your pardon. I 
am indeed sorry if I have caused you pain, and I 
I fear I have. 

"It's a good thing, after all, that we live in a 
world of change. It's a good thing, also, that some- 
times the Lord does not give us what we first cry 
out for. His ways are not always our ways, and if 
we are but patient, and say, Thy will be done,' 
everything will come out right in the end. I feel as 
if this is especially true in my case, and I am sure 
it will be in yours. 

"Jack says he knows you well, and he never 
tires of speaking good of you — and I add my mite; 


so you see we are agreed on one point, at least. I 
hope I shall always have the privilege of calling you 
my friend and brother. 

"Be sure and call on the folks at Stonedale be- 
fore you leave England. We hope to have both 
mother and Bessie with us soon. * * * Here 
comes Jack. He is such a tease, and so I shall have 
to close/' " 

There was one more letter in the envelope, and 
it proved to be from Jack. Pinned to it was a money 

r order for twenty-five dollars. Jack wrote: 
"Dear Will: — The order for twenty-five dollars 
which you will find enclosed is for you. It is a par- 
tial payment on my debt of gratitude which I owe 
you. I am heartily ashamed of myself for not writ- 
ing to you before, and this letter is written on the 
principle that it is better late than never. We are 
a selfish lot, anyway. I suppose I never should have 
written you, had not Elsa come from England to 
our town. You see, it takes a personal touch to 

L awaken us. I moralize thus in a general way, blam- 
ing the race instead of lazy Jack Howard. 
"With the twenty-five have a good time while 
you are yet in England. See some sights, and feed 


up on beef-steak and Yorkshire pudding. The pud- 
ding is all right — I speak from knowledge; Elsa is 
a dandy cook, for a school teacher. I know a lot 
about England and its ways, and to hear my instruc- 
tor praise the country, on^- would think that it is 
the finest land in the worlds The other day I made 
the jocular remark that if the English country is 
prettier than the English girls, I should like to see it. 
The bishop overheard my remark, and stepping up 
to me and placing his arm around my shoulder, he 
said, 'All right, brother; I shall see that your wish is 
gratified.' Shivers ran up and down my spine, and 
the folks said I turned pale. I think he was only 
joking, — but one can't tell. What would I do on a 
mission? I don't need to go to England, for England 
has come to me. ****** 
"I have just come back from visiting the girls, 
so I must finish this letter and send it off. Elsa was 
out when I called, but I found Grace in the parlor. 
I went up the walk unnoticed and stood by the open 
door for a few moments before she knew of my 
presence. Let me tell you what I saw: Grace was 
standing by the piano looking at a photograph. 
Presently, she lifted the picture from the easel, ex- 


amining it at close range. Then she replaced it, 
seated herself on the stool, and, still looking at the 
photograph, began playing your favorite selection, 
"Meditation." I stepped in, and one glance told me 
that the portrait was of one Willard Dean, a mission- 
ary in England. Now, what do you think of that? 

"Hurry home, Will, and be the best man at the 
wedding, and then I shall happily perform a like ser- 
vice for you." 

Willard Dean carefully re-read his letters. Even- 
ing came on, yet he did not light the gas. A small fire 
in the grate sent its glow into the room. He leaned 
back in his chair and gazed into the red coals; but 
he did not see much or hear much with his natural 
senses. The big city of sights and sounds lay all 
around him, yet for Willard its enchantment was 
gone. The home-call had come, and his soul reached 
out in eager response. Home, home! He was going 

Although Willard Dean sat in his humble Lon- 
don lodgings with the shadows of the night deepen- 
ing around him, he being yet in the spirit "looked, and 
behold a door was opened in heaven;" and he heard 
a voice which said, "Come up hither, and I will 
show thee things which must be hereafter." 



In the spirit he flies over sea and land, and as 
quick as thought he is in his native town. How 
high the mountains are, but how small the houses! 
Yet this is home, and he feels as if he has been away 
for but a day. The long rows of trees are covered 
with the dust of the dry, dusty street; but there is a 
big green lawn in front of his father's house, with 
lilac bushes on one side of the path and roses on the 
other. The barn is full of hay, with half of the last 
load sticking out of the gable window. Behind the 
pole bars to the corral, the horses and the cows are 
stretching their necks to eat from the nearby stack 
of wheat. Willard pauses at the gate and plays 
with the latch, a wooden one made by his grand- 
father, but good yet. He gets a full view of the 
house. It appears little, small and weatherbeaten, 
but it is home, the home of his childhood and boy- 
hood. His bedroom was up in the attic, and before 
the window there now hangs a white curtain. In the 
big box-elder near the window are still to be seen the 
remains of a "nest" which he built when a boy. The 
front room window is open, and the curtains swell 
out by the breeze. There comes to him the faint 
odor of mignonette, his mother's planting, he knows. 


What is that? The organ? Yes; they have no piano. 
But who is playing? Can his brothers have learned? 
Not likely, besides, the touch is that of fingers ac- 
customed to the piano. Grace Wells must be visiting 
— but she would never play on their poor instrument. 
He will tread lightly and surprise her, and she shall 
be the first to meet him. He steps quietly along the 
path, tiptoes across the porch, softly opens the door 
and slips into the hall, then into the room. Yes; 
Grace is at the organ. She is sitting with head 
erect, not looking at any music but out through the 
open window to the tree-tops in the yard. Her 
wavy hair is haloed by the low western light from the 
window. Her face is glowing with a fond expect- 
ancy. Hearing Willard's entrance, she stops play- 
ing, turns, stands, then advances to meet him. He 
takes her extended hands. 

"Willard," she whispers, with cheeks aglow; 
then, after a moment "you are tired; come, sit down 

She leads him to the lounge by the window, 
where they sit close together. The evening shadows 
dim the room. The home-like noises from without 
come to him faintly. He does not ask for father or 


for mother, knowing that they are safely about. He 
is wholly occupied with her who sits graciously be- 
side him, the light of love beaming from her face. 
Willard Dean, always shy, always timid, is unafraid. 
Knowledge has come to him, much as the testimony 
of the gospel came. He knows that Grace Wells 
loves him, that she will be his wife for time and for 
eternity. He knows that while he has been doing 
his simple duties, his fondest hopes have realized. 
He has been seeking first the kingdom of God and 
its righteousness, and all other things were being 
added — all this comes to him, while he sits in the 
peace and quiet of his home with the girl he loves 
beside him. 

Thus was the Vision of the Spirit of God given 
to him, which Vision cannot fail. 


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completed account of one who played an im- 
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For sale by all booksellers. 

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